


if i'm good will you come back

by peggy_hamilton



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, geralt has reasons for being the way he is, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 236,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggy_hamilton/pseuds/peggy_hamilton
Summary: Geralt promises himself that this time he won't fall in love with him. This time he will walk away and let him live his life in peace. This time he won’t die because of him.He’s never been good at keeping promises.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1444
Kudos: 824





	1. when he meets him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Witcher fic and I've only watched the show so apologies for lore mistakes!
> 
> This starts well before the series. The major difference is that instead of Geralt being like 80 in the show he's gonna be 206 around the time he meets Jaskier. This fic will basically explain why Geralt is such a lil bitch in the show.
> 
> For reference, in this chapter picture Joey in the King video or as Shelley but with slightly longer hair!

Geralt is making his way north to Kaer Morhen when he meets him.

It has been nearly two years since he graduated as a Witcher and had been left to make his own way in the world. It had taken him almost three months of travelling before he was hired, much to his discontent. He wanted to prove himself, show off the talents he had spent his entire childhood creating, carve his name in the path of history like all the great Witchers he had been taught about.

Turns out that people, even with the knowledge that he was a mutant, did not trust a man who looked as green as him to take out whatever monster plagued their town. If they had to pay a Witcher they wanted to pay an experienced Witcher.

He carried his bitterness between towns until a farmer finally hired him for a wraith. It should have been an easy first contract. He had trained his whole life for this. Training and doing are vastly different and the wraith managed to get the better of him. He ends up with a large jagged cut across his bicep.

He vows to himself that Lambert will _never_ find out about this. No doubt the other Witcher has been doted upon with many contracts during his time away from the school; he had always seemed gruffer with a meaner gleam in his eye that suggested he was older than he was.

After two years Geralt has buffed out a bit more, the constant travelling has hardened his features more than the constant care of school had (albeit, despite the trials). His face now holds a scar above his eyebrow. And his eyes no longer gleam with childish eagerness. He gets hired a lot more now. Although, he can tell the distrust in the eyes of the people was still partly at his young appearance just as much as it was at his mutant status.

Even if they hated his kind, they still wanted a good one to do the job.

Last winter he had been foolish. Vesemir had told them how infrequently the monsters they hunted stayed out during winter – most hibernated to stave off the cold. And it was harder to travel on the icy ground, finding food even more so.

But Geralt wanted to prove himself. To himself, to the people of the Continent, to Vesemir. He was the best Witcher there would ever be.

He spent most of the season freezing and hungry. When a town had no monster to purge, they had no reason for a Witcher. Geralt was lucky if he was allowed to stay for an ale. Melitele herself must have blessed him on the days he was allowed to stay in a room for the night.

His horse hadn’t made it.

Geralt had bought the stallion in mid-autumn hoping the great beast would make it through the harsh season. He wasn’t a complete idiot – he knew a certain amount of hardship was to be expected and it wouldn’t do well to select a weak horse from the breeder.

In the end, it wasn’t the starvation that did it. It was a patch of ice, and the poor thing had slipped and broken its leg.

Geralt was devastated to say the least. If anyone asked, he’d deny it.

He did what had to be done and put the horse out of his misery. For a moment he was glad he hadn’t named it. It was his first horse. A good horse.

For the rest of the season, he had been travelling on foot. Two months of hauling supplies between towns and hoping to god they had someone willing to pay a Witcher. Most of the time they didn’t. The coin he carried grew slimmer by the day and he had to choose between a warm room and a meal on more than one occasion.

He doesn’t plan on making that same mistake this year.

He sold the nameless horse he used during the warmer months a few weeks before the cold weather settled over the lands. The coin from a strong mare would be just enough to scrape by until he made it back to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt has been sat in this inn for close to three hours now. He is on his second ale and sipping as slowly as he can to drag out the time he can stay. He knows he can’t afford to splash out on a room or a meal.

Kaer Morhen is a week’s walk away. In two days, he plans on spending the rest of his coin on a big meal and some water. That would be enough to last him until he reaches the mountains and the castle. For now, he drinks his ale and hopes that it will stop the rumbling in his stomach.

His plan fucks him over royally.

After he leaves the town, Geralt realises there are no more towns left on his route. It’s been almost a week since he last ate and there are still several days to go until he makes it to the keep.

Geralt can tell he is slowing down. With each hour the swords and pack he carries on his back seem to weigh more and more. He pushes on. He has to make it. Kaer Morhen was so close.

It starts to snow.

It is heavy and comes down fast. Geralt is forced to stop by the side of the road and make camp as fast as possible. He manages to make a meagre fire to keep warm and wraps all three of his blankets around him. The snow falls thick and covers him until he looks like a mound of snow. It puts out the fire after an hour.

He’s too weak to use ignii to keep it burning and there would be no chance of finding any dry firewood now. Geralt looks at the small burnt remains of the fire. He ignores the cold that is stealing his warmth with each second and watches the burnt wood slowly begin to frost over and the snow pile up around him.

He almost misses the clacking of hooves making their way down the road towards him.

“Are you okay?”

Boots enter his vision and he looks up to see a figure in a long cloak holding a lantern.

“Are you okay, there?” the man repeats and crouches in front of him.

Geralt sees the bright blue eyes that stand out from behind the darkness of the hood of the cloak.

He nods weakly.

The man squints disbelievingly, “Well, obviously not. I have shelter not too far from here. You can come with me if you like?”

Geralt doesn’t know if he says yes, his entire body feels frozen in place. But he sees the man collecting his scattered packs and putting them on the back of the horse he had ridden in on. Then he is being offered a hand and lifted up to his feet.

He sits behind the man on the horse holding loosely onto his waist. His eyes keep drifting shut. His body trying to shut down.

“Careful back there. We’re nearly home.”

No less than a minute later the man steers the horse off the main path and down a track which leads to a set of large gates that are already open. Past the gates is a large house – that of nobility.

When they arrive in front of the manor he dismounts on wobbly legs. A stable boy comes to take the horse and Geralt lets himself be led inside of the house. The warmth that hits his face is the sweetest kiss he has ever known.

Geralt's senses slowly come back to him. He smells the stew cooking in the kitchens. He can hear the maids upstairs. He can feel his fingertips warming. He can feel the low hum of his medallion.

He’s still too weak to do anything about that. But the humming against his chest keeps him wary of letting his guard down.

“Samantha, take this man to one of our guest rooms and get him a hot bath and some clean clothes. I found him out in the snow,” the man who brought him here calls out to a maid who has just come downstairs.

His voice is softer now that he’s not shouting over the blizzard. A warm and calm voice with a lilt of an accent Geralt can’t place. He looks at the man who saved his life. His eyes are bluer in the light of the hallway than they were outside. His has a neatly trimmed beard and his hair is messed from the storm, but the oil that shines on the strands indicates that he usually wears his hair slicked back.

“Yes, sir.”

The maid approaches him tentatively and asks him to follow her. He does so wordlessly up three flights of stairs until they reach a large guest room. A double bed sits proudly in the centre of the room with embroidered blankets on top that look warm and heavy.

“I’ll fetch you some clothes and a bath, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The maid scurries out and Geralt begins to shed his sodden layers. The blankets that are still around him fall to the floor limply, quickly followed by his heavy armour. He puts off sitting on the bed, he knows he’ll pass straight out on the soft sheets and he needs a warm bath first.

A few minutes later the maid comes back with three others in tow and they fill up the bath with steaming water. They leave a fresh pile of clothes on the bed and soaps by the bath. Geralt doesn’t protest when they wordlessly take his armour from the ground to be washed, they leave his swords which is all he needs.

Once they’re gone, he strips the rest of his clothes off and steps into the warm water. The tension in his muscles leaves instantly and he sinks deeper into the heat. The maids have left some chamomile scented soap and while the flowery scent stings his nose a little it’s nicer than smelling like sweat and the forest floor.

The mud and grime slip off his skin and into the water, there’s no monster gore as far as he can tell – it’s been weeks since he had a contract. He rubs the soap bar over his hair and scrubs harshly at the short strands. He dunks his head into the water and tries to untangle the matted hair that has formed at the back of his head. Thankfully, before winter had set in, he had taken a dagger to it and chopped it short again so the knots aren’t too severe.

He doesn’t want to get out of the bath after he has cleaned. He plans on staying in the water until it goes cold.

The door to his room creaks open softly, “Knock knock.”

Geralt looks at the blue-eyed man with a small glare from the tub. The man’s eyes widen, “Oh gods, sorry, I didn’t realise you weren’t decent. I’ll come back later.”

“It’s fine.”

The man hesitates and then steps into the room, keeping a comfortable distance between them.

“I just wanted to introduce himself properly. Didn’t get a chance to, uh, earlier,” he looks sheepish, “Dreadful manners, I apologise.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him expectantly. The man jumps a bit when he realises he still hasn’t told him his name and he blushes.

“Oh, uh, my name’s Dandelion de Sade. I’m the Lord of the Manor, as it were,” he laughs awkwardly and smooths his hair back. It is in its proper place now, all groomed back and the ends curling where they hang loosely half-way down his neck. He is dressed in a finely woven doublet and trousers that are dark purple, and the doublet is unbuttoned to show the lacy chemise underneath. “And you are?”

“Geralt. Of Rivia.”

Dandelion nods slowly, clearly never having heard of him before.

“I’m a Witcher.”

“Oh!” Dandelions eyes light up. “I must say I’ve never met a Witcher before. I always thought they did the saving and yet here we are and I’m the one who’s saved you,” he laughs to himself. Then registers what his words sound like. “Not that I saved you, per se. I’m sure you would’ve managed just fine on your own.”

Geralt can just make out the blush hiding on Dandelion’s cheeks behind his beard and down to his neck. He can certainly smell the man’s embarrassment.

“You’re right,” Geralt concedes. “I owe you my life and am indebted to you. I wouldn’t recommend the Law of Surprise, I have nothing in that sense to give.”

Dandelion scoffs and waves his hand, “Nonsense. It’s what anyone would have done. You don’t owe me anything.”

Geralt says nothing and settles more comfortably into the water. He doesn’t protest. There was no point in going around getting himself indebted to people.

“I must ask though, what’s a Witcher doing freezing on the roadside?”

“I’m travelling to Kaer Morhen. I was rationing my coin for one last meal for when I was a few days away. I accidentally passed the last inn and didn’t buy anything and it was too late to turn back.”

Dandelion raises his eyebrows, “The nearest inn is several miles away. You mustn’t have eaten in days.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll go get you something,” Dandelion leaves the room without another word.

The bathwater has gone cold and Geralt reluctantly raises from the water. The clothes that had been left are nothing he would wear in a million years. Thankfully, the trousers are black, but the chemise he had been left is finely embroidered with little yellow flowers and is a size too small and clings to his chest and arms tightly.

Dandelion bursts back into the room with a platter of bread, cheese and meats.

“Here I’ve got you something. It’s not much but-,” his words cut off when he lays eyes on Geralt. His mouth gapes and he stares at the tight shirt Geralt wears for a moment too long before he snaps back into reality. “I’ve got the kitchen maid cooking something better but I thought this would do in the meantime.”

Geralt doesn’t know why the man is suddenly staring at him so much.

“Thank you,” He takes the platter and eagerly digs into the food.

Dandelion perches himself on the edge of the bed and Geralt follows suit. Dandelion now seems to be looking at everything but him and Geralt has no clue what is causing this sudden change in mood.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Good. Excellent.” Dandelion nods unconvincingly. Geralt can’t smell of fear which was what usually had people acting on their toes around him.

“Hmm.”

“Well, I’ll leave you be. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you need,” Dandelion pats his shoulder and leaves him. Geralt's skin sparks at the touch and he wishes he hadn't left so soon.

The bed is ridiculously soft and warm. Geralt hasn’t slept on anything so nice in all his life. It takes no time at all for him to fall asleep.

* * *

Dandelion finds him in the stables. Geralt finds peace amongst the animals, in the house he can smell the fear of the servants and see how they avoid him. But horses never judge him.

The horse he is brushing down reminds him of the one he sold a few months ago. The mare has brown fur and a white stripe down her nose.

“There you are,” Dandelion smiles as he walks up to him.

Geralt smiles softly back at him. He doesn’t remember the last time a human showed him any kindness and kindness at Kaer Morhen was a rarity growing up.

“I see you’ve made friends with Roach,” Dandelion strokes her flank while Geralt continues to brush her.

“Roach? That’s an odd name for a horse.”

Dandelion blushes a little and shrugs, “We have a lot of horses here. My uncle used to breed them and I never stopped. When we get a lot of foals born around the same time you need to get inventive with names.”

“And you named a horse after a beetle?”

“No,” Dandelion scoffs and his nose scrunches at the thought, “A fish.”

“Oh, that’s much better,” Geralt chuckles.

Dandelion smiles brightly and grabs a horseshoe pick and takes Roach’s front leg in hand and begins to clean out her shoe. “Instead of coming up with names, we name them after breeds of animals. This is Roach, my stallion born in the same week is called Salmon.”

Geralt stops what he’s doing and stares at Dandelion in disbelief, “Salmon? Really? Poor horse.”

Dandelion laughs, “His mother is called Tabby, and all the horses born at that time were names after breeds of cats.”

Geralt shakes his head and goes back to brushing Roach.

“What do you name your horses then?” Dandelion asks after a few moments of silence.

“I’ve only had two. I didn’t name them.”

Dandelion furrows his eyebrows, “How could you not name them?”

“Witchers aren’t supposed to be distracted by caring for anything. If you don’t name your horse then you don’t get attached.”

Dandelion is quiet as he thinks that over and tentatively asks, “Does it work?”

Geralt thinks of his first horse and how devastated he had been when the stallion had broken his leg and sealed his fate. He thinks of the chestnut mare he had sold and the pain in his chest when the herder had walked away with her.

“No.”

* * *

“You can keep Roach, if you want,” Dandelion tells him at dinner.

For the past few days, he has been going out to the stables to look after the horses. He doesn’t like being cooped up in the house with all the servants who avoid him. Dandelion never does – in fact, Geralt is sure he actively seeks him out. Every day he finds him with the horses despite not having any reason to be there himself.

“What?”

“You can keep Roach. I know you don’t have your own and it’d be quicker if you had a horse. She likes you, take her,” Dandelion shrugs.

Geralt blinks, “I don’t have anything to give you for her.”

Dandelion shakes his head, “For free, don’t be silly.”

Geralt has never been given anything for free. “Are you sure?”

Dandelion sends him a soft easy smile, “Of course.”

* * *

The week passes by too quickly for his liking. When he is fully healed, he has no excuse to stay any longer.

The snow has stopped falling and has settled to the ground. Geralt knows he only has a limited time to make the rest of the journey to Kaer Morhen. Roach is all packed up and ready to go but he finds himself lingering in the stable.

“You’re leaving, then,” Dandelion is leaning in the doorway of the stable.

“Yes.”

Dandelion chews the inside of his cheek and nods slowly, “You’re more than welcome to stay here you know. For the winter, or whatever.”

Geralt wants to take him up on that offer and quickly squashes the thought. Witchers weren’t meant to have feelings or wants like that. “Thank you, but I really must be going.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course,” Dandelion looks like he wants to say something but is holding himself back. Geralt wants to ask what he’s thinking but refrains and leads Roach out of the stable.

He mounts Roach and looks down at Dandelion who is still standing there. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Dandelion smiles softly at him but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Any time. See you around, Geralt.”

Geralt urges Roach forward and they ride out of the de Sade estate. He can feel Dandelion’s eyes on his back. When he reaches the gates at the end of the long garden, he turns his head over his shoulder. Dandelion is still standing there and lifts his hand to wave at him.

He waves back and keeps riding. The cold wind bites at his cheek and he instantly longs for the warm fires in the house. He doesn’t turn back again.

* * *

The road to Kaer Morhen is closer than he remembers. Geralt makes it to the bottom of the mountain pass by nightfall and makes camp. He can’t get a certain pair of blue eyes out of his mind and he knows that he must before he reaches the keep.

When the sun rises, he packs up camp quickly and sets on his way. He should have left Dandelion sooner, he realises, when he sees how much snow has collected on the mountain. He can barely see the pass and the snow has fallen heavier here than in the valleys.

Geralt barely remembers the way. The snow has completely covered any markers Witchers used to navigate the steep climb. It takes him longer than it should to see the peaks of Kaer Morhen in the distance. The sun is already beginning to set and he spurs Roach faster.

Snow is falling again by the time he reaches the castle. It sits on Roach’s back and over his cloak. He pushes the rusted iron gates open and slides the lock into place behind him. He brings Roach to the stables first as they are closest to the gate.

Inside, the stables are already nearly full from the other Witchers who made it here before him. Geralt leads Roach to an empty pen near the back of the stable. He takes off her saddlebags, brushes her down and throws a thick blanket over her.

The sun has set completely by the time he finishes and stalks to the keep. The castle is motionless, supper will have been hours ago and his brothers will have no doubt gone to bed. The only sign that there is life inside the building is the flickering of candles lighting up several windows.

He goes inside and relaxes at the warmth that hits his face. The hot springs from the mountain are built into the castle to keep it warm and the keep always maintained large fireplaces on all floors to keep the harsh winter cold at bay.

The entry hallway is lined by torches to light the way. Geralt finds his way to the kitchen and feasts on the leftovers he finds there. The door clatters open behind him.

“Geralt.”

“Vesemir,” Geralt can’t help but smile at the sight of his former teacher. He regrets it the second he does when the older Witcher narrows his eyes at the display of affection. He quickly schools his expression into one of impassiveness.

“We thought you were dead. You didn’t come back last winter. And you’re late.” Vesemir crosses his arms.

Geralt shrinks under the scolding and looks at the floor. He feels like a boy again still being taught how to behave instead of the Witcher who has made his own way for the past two years.

“Last year I got caught up, didn’t make it to Kaedwen in time to make it up the mountain,” he lies. He won’t admit to anyone how he had been too egotistical in his own abilities to come home. He’s sure that Vesemir knows he isn’t telling the truth but the older man says nothing.

“And this year?”

“I was staying with a friend.”

It wasn’t a lie and the words fall easily from his lips. He remembers Dandelion and the way he made him lose his breath. A friend, the correct term but not the one he wants.

Vesemir’s eyebrows raise, “A friend?”

Geralt realises his mistake, “Just someone I know.”

“Hmm,” Vesemir sizes him up. “A Witcher has no friends. Have I not taught you well enough?”

“No. Yes, you have. He’s not a friend,” Geralt corrects, “I met him a week ago and he offered me shelter from the snow.”

Vesemir walks further into the kitchen. If he was one of his brothers Geralt would tell him to piss off and mind his own business but he can’t do that to his mentor. Even if he and Vesemir are both Witchers one and the same now Vesemir will always be his superior.

“A week ago? And you stayed for so long?”

At that moment, Geralt really wishes he had stayed at Dandelion’s for the winter. It’s too late to leave now.

“My horse had frostbite. I had to stay until she recovered.”

A lie again but Vesemir accepts his answer.

Vesemir leads him to one of the last few empty rooms. It’s on the top floor, one of the coldest – the Witchers who had arrived earlier had grabbed all the ones on the lower floors that were heated by the hot springs. The higher floors were exposed to the winds and the only heat came from the smaller fireplaces in each room.

Geralt falls asleep quickly under the layers of thick blankets and sleeps until well into the next day. It’s mid-afternoon when he rises and makes his way down to the dining hall on the ground floor.

He hears the noise when he’s half-way down the stairs. The noise of chatter and yells echoes throughout the keep and out of the window he can see several Witchers sparring in the courtyard.

He reaches the dining hall and pauses for a moment. It’s been over two years since he saw this many Witchers, or any Witcher, in one place. The room is packed full.

At a long table sits Vesemir and the other teachers. Geralt grimaces at the sight of them and all the pain they inflicted on them. He respects them, but he doesn’t like them.

The table in front of them is the Witchers in training. They range from young boys of five all the way to teenagers; they’re a half mutated and unruly lot. Some are boisterous and yell and play fight with each other, others already look quiet and traumatised. One of the younger boys has a large cut across his cheek that is clearly from sword practice.

Finally, the other half of the room is filled with the other Witchers such as himself. He spots Eskel and makes his way over to him. Eskel was older than he was, he had already been out in the world for a few years by the time Geralt was taken to Kaer Morhen. He had taken him under his wing and was one of the few other Witchers that Geralt genuinely liked.

“Geralt!” Eskel greets with a wide smile. He shakes his head quickly to move his messy brown fringe out of his face, he’s let it grow out since Geralt last saw him and the look suits him. Geralt sits opposite him and smiles in return.

When he had been a boy going through the trials, he had a small crush on Eskel – he was handsome and charismatic. He had realised that the other boys didn’t have such inclinations to their fellow Witchers and had never said anything or acted on it when he got older.

He no longer felt the same about Eskel, it had just been a boyhood crush. Eskel was no more than a good friend and that was all Geralt wanted him to be.

“Eskel, not dead yet, then?” Geralt smirks as he grabs some bread and meat from the middle of the table for his breakfast, even if it is lunch.

Eskel snorts, “Nope, it’ll take more than a griffin or two to kill this handsome face.” For emphasis, he turns his face side to side to show off his chiselled jawline and high cheekbones.

Geralt snorts and shakes his head. He notices that Eskel has a new scar along his eyebrow but it’s barely noticeable. He had forgotten how good looking the other Witcher actually is, and now studying his features he realises his floppy brown hair reminds him of Dandelion.

“Never mind me dying, we all thought you were a goner when you didn’t show up last winter.”

Geralt tells him the same lies he told Vesemir and thankfully Eskel doesn’t interrogate him. Instead, he tells him about what he’s been up to in the weeks since he arrived and which of the young boys he thinks will do well in the trials.

* * *

After he’s caught up with Eskel and the dining hall clears he sets out to find Lambert. As expected, he finds him in the courtyard sparring with a Witcher Geralt doesn’t know.

Geralt watches their fight with interest. Lambert is fearsome and fast with a sword as he always has been. He was only a few years younger than Geralt and had undergone the trails at the same time as him.

Lambert wins the round against the other Witcher who skulks off and he notices Geralt watching him. Instead of a greeting, Geralt walks over and draws his own sword picking up the fight anew.

It’s familiar, fighting with Lambert. He knows the way the other man moves and fights, well-practised blows that are actually a challenge to fend off. Lambert had always been a better fighter but he relied on his brute strength and speed. Geralt had far longer stamina and the skill to deflect most of his energy until Lambert’s had run out.

Still, they were usually evenly matched.

When they had been boys Lambert had kept a tally of how many spars they had won. Geralt had won two more but Lambert disputes the grounds and believes that they were, at best, at a tie.

Lambert brings his sword down in an arch over his head and Geralt brings his up to block and is pushed back a few steps.

“You’ve gotten rusty,” Lambert grins baring all his teeth.

Geralt pushes forward and Lambert staggers back, he slashes at his right and Lambert only just manages to block.

“Haven’t exactly had any worthy opposition.”

Lambert grabs a long dagger from his belt and begins using both for his attack. He knocks Geralt to the floor and Geralt raises his hips to kick Lambert solidly in his stomach. Lambert coughs, winded, and Geralt jumps to his feet and lands a blow on Lambert’s left arm, then leg, then right side.

“Clearly someone hasn’t taken any interesting contracts, then,” Lambert snarls and strikes hard and fast with renewed force.

“I assume that’s you,” Geralt grits his teeth and changes from defence to wholehearted attack, “Considering all this pent up anger you have.”

“Bastard.”

They don’t let up the fight. Each strike of their swords is matched and every strike is hard won. The other Witchers who had been sparring alongside them have stopped to watch. The audience only spurs them on. Lambert begins to slow down and Geralt takes the upper hand, Lambert ends up on his back.

“You done?” Geralt smirks drawing back and offering a hand to Lambert.

He takes it and huffs as he’s pulled to his feet, “I’ll win next time.” They walk away from the centre of the courtyard to the well to get some water to wash the sweat off their faces and necks.

“That’s what you said last time.”

Lambert growls and shoves his shoulder into Geralt but there’s no heat in it. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you’d been killed by something pathetic like a wraith, or a child.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Why do you care if I die?”

“I don’t,” Lambert shakes his head, “Last year was very peaceful without you around.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

They walk back to the courtyard and stand to the side watching the other Witchers sparring. As Geralt had suspected Lambert had been given many contracts since leaving Kaer Morhen, and if Geralt exaggerates how successful his own contract finding has been then only he needs to know.

* * *

Winter passes much too slowly.

Geralt spends his days sparring with Eskel or Lambert, sometimes other Witchers whose names he doesn’t care to remember but they are often no match for him. The keep is a lot louder than he remembers it being and he finds himself grateful his room is at the top and far away from the majority of the noise.

The noise is easy to block out in the day. It consists of shouts and the clashing of metal from the courtyard. It is the noisy dining hall as men and boys clamber over each other to grab food to fill their hungry bellies.

At night it’s different.

The mountain range echoes every noise off its high peaks. The noises at night are hardly that of the peaceful forest. It is the screams of the younger boys undergoing the trials.

Their wails so loud they reach his room with ease despite the trail potions being administered in the basement. Geralt flinches at the screams, unable to hold back the memory of his own trials. His body seems to hurt in sympathy with the boys, sometimes he wishes they would just die to be put out of their misery.

Come morning no one ever mentions what they heard in the night. The Witchers he sits next to look unplagued by the noises as if they got a full night’s sleep. Maybe they did, Geralt thinks, maybe they didn’t care about the torture happening in their own walls. _Witchers don’t feel emotions_ , he had never been sure that was true, because surely they all felt happy at a successful hunt and sad when they can’t save a child. But looking at the smiling uncaring faces he considers that maybe they were right, and it’s him who is the strange one.

If there is one less face sat at the table with those in training, no-one seems to notice.

* * *

Vesemir asks if he would consider helping train new Witchers.

Geralt’s first reaction is to feel proud that his esteemed mentor thinks that he’s good enough to teach the next generation of Witchers. His second is to feel guilty at the thought of being an instrument in the torture of children. He gracefully declines.

Some of those in training come up to him anyway. They ask him how to fight better and what it’s like being a Witcher. It’s usually the younger boys, those still ignorant to the pain that will most likely kill them within a few years. Geralt indulges them when they ask but they stop asking him after a while when they realise that despite being the most mutated Witcher at Kaer Morhen he has much less experience than the older Witchers.

He tries not to notice how many more younger boys there are than older boys. He tries not to notice when one of them is no longer seen. He fails and at night his mind runs through the faces of his brothers who didn’t make it.

* * *

There is one face that he can’t shake from his mind. One face that does not bring him sorrow to think about.

Geralt distracts himself all day but when he’s alone in his room he can’t help but think about Dandelion. About his warm and welcoming mansion. About how Dandelion had never sneered or shied away from him. About Dandelion’s bearded smile and slicked-back hair, and the way it would fall into his face by the end of the day.

He hates being in Kaer Morhen for an entirely different reason than he is used to.

When the weather turns and starts to get warmer Geralt becomes restless. Enough that Eskel and Lambert notice and tend to steer clear of him when it makes him snappy. Every morning that passes and he still sees snow from the window feels like a betrayal.

He is the first Witcher to leave Kaer Morhen that year. The first day the pass down the mountain has melted enough he packs his belongings and takes Roach from the stable.

Geralt moves fast, only taking a break when Roach needs to. When night falls he is nearly at Dandelion’s. He reluctantly stops to make camp and barely sleeps. His stomach won’t settle even when he meditates.

Just before dawn breaks his anticipation turns sour.

He begins to consider the fact that Dandelion may not want to see him again. It had surely only been politeness that had prompted him to give Geralt shelter. A noble didn’t want a Witcher on their grounds, especially in spring when no doubt Dandelion would have lots of visitors.

The thought is enough to make him want to change directions. He packs up when it’s light enough and he climbs onto Roach. She huffs in annoyance when he takes too long to pick a direction.

He directs her the way to Dandelions. If his presence is unwelcome he can return Roach and pretend that that was the purpose of his visit. His heart clenches at the thought of giving up the mare he had grown so fond of over winter, but the excuse in hand is the only thing giving him the motivation to keep going.

It’s midday when he spots the familiar large gates to the estate. They’re not guarded, Dandelion only kept a small number of staff employed. He bypasses the gates and rides up the long path to the manor.

Anxiety curls up in his gut. It’s not too late to turn back.

He pulls on Roach’s reins to get her to turn around but she ignores him and keeps striding forward. Geralt curses under his breath when they reach the manor. He doesn’t really know what to do.

Geralt hops off Roach and slowly climbs the steps to the front door. The door is large and painted black with a golden knocker. He didn’t remember it looking so imposing and so unlike Dandelion’s personality.

He gulps and knocks. There is no answer for quite a while and he makes a turn to leave when it opens. It’s the butler who looks very confused by his appearance.

“I’m sorry, we’re not expecting anyone,” the butler says tightly, “Who might you be?”

“Geralt of Rivia, I stayed here at the start of winter.”

The butler seems to recognise him then and lets him inside. “Wait here.” He scurries off and leaves Geralt alone in the hall.

He hears Dandelion before he sees him.

“Geralt,” Dandelion smiles breathlessly when he sees him, as if he never thought he would again.

The frost that had worked its way into Geralt’s heart over the winter thaws.

“Dandelion,” he smiles tentatively in return.

Dandelion crosses the distance and pulls Geralt in for a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you,” the lord says before stepping back, “Winter has been so boring.”

“Mine too.”

Dandelion shakes his head, “A whole winter with Witchers hardly seems boring. Come, you must tell me all about it. I want every last detail.”

He leads him to the kitchen and has a maid make them some tea and food. He’s still grinning like Geralt has made his entire year by showing up.

“Tell me everything,” Dandelion spreads his fingers and gestures in excitement as he settles into a chair opposite Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t know where to start, “It was,” he struggles for a word, “Cold.”

Dandelion nods eagerly, “Oh I bet, Kaer Morhen is up in the mountains, right?”

Geralt blinks, he’s not used to humans knowing the name of his keep. “How do you know the name?”

“I’m a lord that lives in close proximity to a Witcher school, I can’t exactly not know. Just in case you all turn out to be rabid, which I thought was utter bullshit because a school is too organised for people who are supposedly mindless beasts. I never believed those rumours, but I didn’t get to pick and choose what my tutors told me.”

“So how much do you know?” Geralt tests the waters.

Clearly Dandelion knows more than he had expected, and as much as a person says they don’t believe rumours words are only words. Upon hearing what Kaer Morhen is really like Dandelion might shun him like the rest of humanity has done.

“Not that much,” Dandelion says disappointedly, “Mostly based on rumours, I suspect. My Uncle Igor said Witchers used to be esteemed amongst nobles but not anymore. And he said that should any monsters ever crop up in my lands it would do good not to turn away a Witcher.”

“Is that why you didn’t turn me away?”

“Of course not,” Dandelion says softly.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say next but thankfully the maid comes with two bowls of hot stew and bread. He devours his food quickly, the subtle spice and seasoning taste so good. Kaer Morhen cooks wouldn’t know what seasoning was if a bag of it hit them in the face, all the food was incredibly bland. Food was a function to keep them alive, not something to be enjoyed.

Dandelion has the maid bring him a second helping. Geralt protests but the other man won’t hear of it. He eats the next bowl of stew just as quickly.

He starts to talk about Kaer Morhen, keeping the less than pleasant details to himself. He tells Dandelion about Eskel and Lambert, his room on the top floor, what training is like. The lord is enthralled by every scrap of detail Geralt provides and his wide-eyed face does nothing the help the butterflies swarming in his stomach.

“What about you? Your winter?”

Dandelion sighs heavily, “Boring, as usual. Mostly just going over paperwork for taxes and the like, receiving empty invitations and liaisons from other lords.”

“Empty?”

“I get a lot of invitations and requests to come visit from the other Kaedwen nobility, it’s only proper to ‘maintain relationships’,” Dandelion explains, sounding very disillusioned with the whole idea. “But no one ever actually comes up this far north, and if I’ve ever gone to an event I’ve been invited to it’s very clear they didn’t want me to come.”

“How come?”

“Probably my Uncle. He was a sour bastard who didn’t exactly do anyone any favours, so the de Sade name doesn’t have a good reputation.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Dandelion shrugs easily, quickly switching from bitter to dismissive, “Oh well, they’re probably not good company anyway.”

Geralt snorts, “I’m hardly good company.” He was already pushing the limits just being here, Dandelion was far more suited to eating with the company of other lords and ladies than some Witcher.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dandelion says with a flourish, “Come, I’ll show you to your room. I assume you’re staying the night?”

Geralt hadn’t wanted to assume he was allowed such a luxury but he finds the small wedge of guilt unravel and he nods slowly. Dandelion easily leads him through the sweeping halls and talks non-stop about nothing much at all. His voice fills the empty house with warmth and Geralt wants to listen to it forever.

It’s the same room as the one he stayed in before winter. The sheets are different and there’s no bathtub which is a small disappointment – at Kaer Morhen the bathhouse is made up of large pools and he rarely got to bathe alone.

“Everything to your liking?” Dandelion hovers by the door while Geralt inspects the room and sets his swords down.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Dandelion sends him another soft smile and Geralt can feel his addiction for them growing by the minute. “You can stay as long as you like, you know. And whenever.”

Geralt nods awkwardly, he’s not used to this sort of easy generosity. Everything he received at Kaer Morhen was strictly rationed between all of them and out in the real world generosity accounted for not being chased out of town.

“Would you like a bath? I’m not saying you smell, but,” Dandelion trails off awkwardly, his cheeks blushing bright red not quite hidden by his thick beard.

Geralt chuckles, “Yes please, thank you, again.”

Dandelion rolls his eyes and smiles, “Stop thanking me, what’s mine is yours.”

He slips out of the room and Geralt is left alone again, he immediately misses his presence. When the maids bring his bath he sinks into the warm water with a pleased sigh. He finds himself glancing at the door as if waiting for Dandelion to walk through the door like he did on the first night. He doesn’t and Geralt ignores the pang in his chest.

Witchers don’t feel, he tells himself, a mantra he repeats in his head hoping that it will be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Come find me on tumblr @pansexualbuchanan <3


	2. i think you'll look lovely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up folks this is a long chapter

Geralt has been at the de Sade manor for nearly two weeks now. Way too long. All the other Witchers were most likely well out of Kaedwen and here he was, still within fifty miles of Kaer Morhen.

A week ago he had told himself he would leave. He had come down to breakfast intending to make it known he would be leaving that afternoon. Instead, Geralt had come down to find Dandelion sitting at the dining table, lit softly by the morning light still wearing a loose bed shirt and curled around a book. He had watched him for a moment before he joined him, making sure the image was imprinted in his brain. When Dandelion saw him, he spent the morning reading to him from the book – his favourite poetry collection.

Geralt couldn’t leave after that.

Now here he was a week later and resolutely forcing himself to leave. He had packed up and put on his armour. It was too late to turn back now. He had been in a sour mood all morning.

This time when he meets Dandelion for breakfast, the other man sees his armour and deflates. “You’re leaving again?”

“I have to follow the Path.”

Breakfast is a quiet affair, Geralt can see the swarm of thoughts flowing across Dandelion’s eyes but he remains silent.

* * *

Geralt gets Roach ready to leave as slowly as he can. He hasn’t said a proper goodbye yet and Dandelion had disappeared after breakfast. Roach flicks her ears impatiently and stomps her hoofs.

“Be quiet, I’m waiting,” he narrows his eyes at the mare.

“Excellent!” exclaims Dandelion who is suddenly behind him, slightly panting and holding a large bag, “I thought I’d have to ride after you to catch up.”

“Catch up?”

Dandelion quickly attaches a saddle to his horse, Salmon, and loads the bag onto it. “Yep, I’m coming with you.”

Geralt blinks rapidly, “What do you mean?”

“I’m coming with you,” Dandelion swings himself up onto Salmon, “It’s boring here, you’re interesting. Easy decision.”

Geralt is still standing beside Roach dumbfounded, “You can’t come.”

Dandelion shrugs easily, “Sure I can.”

Geralt can’t tell if it’s Dandelion’s particular brand of stubbornness or his lordly upbringing that has him unable to accept no for an answer. “The Path is too dangerous for a human.”

“I’ll be fine, I’m handy with a sword,” Dandelion argues, pointing to the sword at his hip that Geralt hadn’t noticed until then. It wasn’t as large as his own swords but still large enough. “You can’t stop me.”

Geralt gives up and mounts Roach and together they ride away from the manor and out onto the main road. He wonders how long it will be before Dandelion realises that the life of a Witcher is no grand romantic adventure after all. He gives it a week until the lord decides to return home – a thought that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

They travel slowly for the first few days. Geralt sets the pace slower than he usually travels to make Dandelion’s trip back home easier. And selfishly, to put off arriving in a town where Dandelion will surely see what he truly is and leave.

Dandelion doesn’t seem to mind sleeping outdoors. He looks silly and out of place, his fine colourful silks are practically a beacon for all to see and surely provide no warmth. He even insists on wearing a hat, and not a practical one, one made of silks with fur lining it and feathers sticking from it. Thankfully, Dandelion owns one item of clothing that isn’t outrageously colourful and that is a long brown cloak that covers his bright appearance and protects him from the cold.

It’s amusing how unaware of how out of place he is, and Geralt finds himself growing fonder of Dandelion as each day passes.

It’s been four days since they set off that they arrive in the first town – the one Geralt had accidentally not eaten in all those months ago. It really should have taken a maximum of two days to reach, and as they get closer the anxiety in his gut doubles. He prepares himself for the change of Dandelion’s face from easy companionship to match their disgust. Prepares for the inevitable abandonment.

When they arrive there are still a few people milling about in the streets before sundown. The rain is thick on the air and they all hurry home before it arrives. He’s met with the usual glares and mutterings – no rocks so far which is good.

The rain starts to fall when they leave the horses at a stable and make their way back through town. It starts to fall heavier but they reach the inn before they can be caught in the worst of it.

“A room for two, please,” Dandelion slides up to the desk and flashes the innkeeper a charming smile.

The innkeeper looks up with a sour expression on his face. He sees Geralt first and his face twists into a grimace. Geralt already knows they’ll be turned away and will have to make camp somewhere hopefully out of the worst of the rain. Before the innkeeper can say anything, he looks at Dandelion and his eyes grow wide.

“Yes, my lord, of course. We have plenty of rooms for choosing,” he stammers out.

“Great, your finest room then, please,” Dandelion smiles.

“Of course, my lord,” the innkeeper says. When he says tells them the price of the room Geralt is about to ask for a cheaper room, but Dandelion hands over the coins without hesitation.

When they are given the key and find the room it’s clearly one of their largest and well furnished. Two single beds are on either side of the room and actually look big enough to fit him, there’s a sofa and a bathtub and a large fireplace. Geralt is about to reprimand Dandelion for using his status to get them a better room but as lighting crashes outside he decides that just this once it’s okay.

“How did he know who you were?” Geralt asks as he sheds his armour and outer layers.

“Well I’m the lord of these lands, I imagine most people would know of me.”

Geralt looks at Dandelion and takes in his appearance, he still wears rings and fancy doublets that denote his noble birth. Although when he wears his cloak he looks like any commoner.

“Yes, but you didn’t say who you were. Most ordinary people won’t know what you actually look like even if they know your name.”

“Ah,” Dandelion nods and blushes, “I’ve been here before.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow curiously and motions for him to continue.

“When my uncle first took me in, he brought me round all of his provinces. He said it was to educate me but I know he was just parading the fact that he had an heir,” Dandelion says. “Although, I looked quite different then, so that’s not why.”

“So why?”

Dandelion rubs his fingers together anxiously, “I used to come here to perform?”

Geralt’s eyebrows knot together in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“After my uncle died, I could do what I wanted, and I’ve always loved music. I’d go into the towns and perform on my lute. I’m not very good, I’ve not had much practice actually being in front of people,” Dandelion blushed heavily and ducked his head.

“You can play the lute?” Geralt wondered why he hadn’t heard him play before and why he hadn’t brought his instrument with him.

“Not very well,” Dandelion shook his head, “Not enough to make a living.”

“You’ll be better than you think you are,” Geralt assures.

“Thanks, Geralt,” Dandelion sends him a warm smile and Geralt’s heart melts at the sight.

The next morning, he finds a contract, a small nest of drowners. Easy enough. When he returns to the inn covered in blood and guts he expects Dandelion to finally leave. He doesn’t. He helps him bathe and sends his clothes to be washed.

Dandelion stays with him and they keep travelling and the nagging doubt in the back of Geralt’s head slowly disappears.

* * *

A month later when Geralt is in a market trying to find ingredients to stock up his potions he spots a stall selling instruments. Dandelion was still in bed as it was too early for him to get up. Geralt walks over to the stall and looks at the wide array of instruments and has no idea what half of them are.

“Do you sell lutes?”

“Aye, I’ve got two left,” he takes down two lutes and presents them. Neither look to be of good quality but the left looks significantly better.

“How much?”

“Forty coin.”

Geralt hands over the money, he’d need to find another contract to replenish his funds but it was worth it. He holds the lute carefully as he makes his way back to the inn. Dandelion is still asleep when he gets back but he wakes slowly when Geralt arrives.

“I got you something,” Geralt announces.

“Oh?” Dandelion sits up and yawns, rubbing his eyes and stretching. Geralt’s eyes are drawn to the stretch of his neck and the arch of his back. “What is it?”

Geralt snaps his eyes back to meet Dandelion’s and smiles, bringing the lute from behind his back and hands it to Dandelion.

Dandelion’s eyes go wide and a shocked smile breaks at his face. He jumps out of bed and envelops Geralt in a tight hug chanting thank you over and over in his ear. He’s still shirtless and warm from sleep and Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

“You’re welcome.”

Dandelion sits on the bed and begins tuning the strings, then begins to pluck at them. When he had said he was no good at playing he had been a filthy liar. A beautiful melody sounds through the air and Dandelion hums quietly, Geralt can tell he’s holding back the lyrics.

“Sing?” he asks in a small voice, he’s not used to asking for things and certainly not music.

Dandelion wets his lips and hesitantly begins to sing, keeping his eyes on the lute. His voice is low, it’s not confident and wavers in places and it’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever heard.

_I have a question  
It might seem strange  
How are your lungs?  
Are they in pain?_

_'Cause mine are aching  
Think I know why  
I kinda like it though  
You wanna try?_

_Let's write a story  
Be in my book  
You've got to join me on my page  
At least take a look_

_Oh, where are your manners?  
You need some time?  
Let's swap chests today  
That might help you decide_

_Oh would you be  
So kind  
As to fall in love with me, you see  
I'm trying  
I know you know that I like you  
But that's not enough  
So if you will  
Please fall in love  
I think it's only fair  
There's gotta be some butterflies somewhere  
Wanna share?  
'Cause I like you  
But that's not enough  
So if you will  
Please fall in love with me_

Geralt is breathless by the end of the song. He wonders if that’s what he feels for Dandelion, love. A part of him is raging with hurt that Dandelion wants someone other than him and that thought all but confirms where Geralt’s heart lies.

Dandelion hesitantly looks up at him, fidgeting his fingers together nervously. “I wrote it this winter,” he reveals.

Geralt doesn’t know how to put his mountain of thoughts into words. He wants to pour out everything he’s thought and felt since they met but he can’t find the words. “It’s lovely,” is all his says, his voice thick with emotion.

He wants Dandelion to say something, anything, he desperately needs it. But he doesn’t. They go to the tavern for dinner and on the surface everything seems normal. It isn’t. Geralt’s never wanted anything more than to reach out and touch the lord, he isn’t even sure what half his feelings mean.

It’s slightly awkward in the following days. Words are always on the tip of Geralt’s tongue but they never form. Dandelion looks at him with a face he can’t pin – he doesn’t dare to hope he feels the same.

By two weeks later they’ve settled back into their normal rhythm with the distraction of contracts and sleeping at camps. Geralt’s new normal consists of holding back his emotions and shoving them as far down as he can, unsuccessfully.

* * *

Dandelion is watching the tavern’s bard with all his focus. Geralt can’t help but look at him and the adorable way his tongue sticks out of his mouth when he’s focussed on something. His fingers are lightly tapping the table in time with the beat, or maybe in a mimic of what strings he would pluck on a lute. Geralt desperately wants to intertwine those fingers with his own.

The bard eventually stops and Dandelion sinks with disappointment and turns his attention back to Geralt.

“You should play.”

“What?” Dandelion nearly chokes on his ale and Geralt holds back a laugh.

“You should play, perform.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Dandelion quickly laughs, “No way.”

Geralt frowns, “Why not, you said you’ve performed before, and you have a lovely singing voice.”

Dandelion scoffs, “Hardly. And I only ever performed a handful of times, and that was in tiny taverns, this place is huge.”

“It’s the same as any other. Play.”

“After that performance? I’ll make a laughingstock of myself.”

“No, you won’t,” Geralt insists, “Please?”

Dandelion sends him a withering look, “Really? Puppy dog eyes? Fine.” He picks up his lute with shaky hands, downs his ale and steps up to the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am surely no match for that excellent performance, but if you would allow me it would be my honour to perform for you this evening.”

He sings a few songs and Geralt’s heart wells with pride when he sees him slowly gain more confidence. When Dandelion performs he comes alive in a way Geralt has never really seen before and the love he feels grows ever deeper.

Dandelion returns with flushed cheeks, a handful of coins and a smile that won’t disappear from his face.

“I told you so.”

Dandelion laughs, “Thank you for making me do that.”

* * *

Slowly, Geralt convinces Dandelion to perform more.

In most towns they visit, Geralt can cajole him into standing up and singing for the crowd. His hands always nervously twitch beforehand but when he’s on stage he becomes a different person. Confident and flashy.

Dandelion keeps the whole tavern enthralled – Geralt most of all. He sings popular songs that everyone can dance along to. Occasionally he’ll sing his own songs which tend to be light love songs.

When he sings those songs he always catches Geralt’s eyes and for a few moments he can convince himself that the words are for him.

After he’s done, Dandelion will spend some time talking to whoever happens to be in the tavern. Geralt watches with only a pang of jealousy and wishes he could call him his; but seeing how happy Dandelion is to receive compliments is enough to assuage any envy.

* * *

Summer passes by much too quickly, as time always does when he is with Dandelion and he’s left wanting more.

With each day the feeling inside Geralt grows and he’s really not sure what to do. It’s like a weight on his chest – a good weight, but a weight all the same – that gets heavier with every stolen glance or brush of hands.

On colder nights when their bedrolls are close together Geralt can feel the heat rolling off Dandelion and stays awake all night. When, god forbid, he comes back from a hunt covered in guts and Dandelion helps him bathe he thinks the weight on his chest might finally crush him. It doesn’t, of course, and he has to suffer Dandelion’s soft touches and clench his fists so that he doesn’t tempt himself to reach out and touch him back.

As winter begins to settle they head north again. Neither wanting to let go of the summer. Geralt stays in Dandelion’s manor for a week again, he finds it strange that a place he has lived in for less than a month feels more like home than Kaer Morhen ever has. But he realises it makes perfect sense, because the Path feels like home too when Dandelion is by his side.

There’s a new swathe of horses with terrible names that have been bred in their absence over summer, this time named after breeds of birds. Roach starts to sound like a normal name.

When he rides to Kaer Morhen it’s the first time he’s been alone all year. He keeps looking to the side expecting to see Dandelion and Salmon riding next to him. Kaer Morhen is loud as usual when he arrives, this time in daylight when they’re still out training in the courtyard.

Vesemir greets him with his usual solemn face. Geralt is sure he can probably smell Dandelion on him, if not he can definitely smell the chamomile and that in itself is enough to give him away. Vesemir doesn’t question him about it this year, a small mercy.

He isn’t the last to arrive and is given a room on a lower floor, the same as Lambert which he knows is going to be its own type of hell. At least it’s warmer and closer to the vents from the hot springs.

“Why so glum,” Lambert asks, chucking a balled-up piece of paper at Geralt. He had decided to invade his room for the evening and is sprawled out on Geralt’s bed while he sits at the desk going over a bestiary.

“I’m not glum,” Geralt says, glumly.

Lambert snorts, “C’mon, I’m your oldest friend. Tell me.”

“You’re my youngest friend.”

Lambert narrows his eyes, “You know what I mean. I won’t judge,” he grins, “Much.”

Geralt sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The top is longer than he’s used to and beginning to curl, he absently wonders if Vesemir will still make him cut it. “There’s someone.”

Lambert sits up eagerly, “Do tell.”

“Someone I,” Geralt struggles to find the words, “Care for,” he says carefully.

“That’s dangerous,” Lambert says with a more serious tone.

As much as Lambert has always been snarky and pain in Geralt’s ass he does have the capability to be a good friend. When they had been going through the trials together it was Lambert on the table next to him as they promised each other they would survive. And when Geralt had undergone the extra mutations Lambert had been there for him.

“Who is it?”

“A lord.”

Lambert raises his eyebrows a little at that but makes no comments.

“The one I stayed with last winter. I went back to his estate in spring, he came travelling with me on the Path.”

Lambert whistles, “And he didn’t run and hide the second he saw you come back with black eyes and a monster head?”

Geralt shook his head, “Not once.”

“He’s a keeper then.”

Geralt hums and looks back to the bestiary. Lambert narrows his eyes and studies him for a moment, “Don’t tell Vesemir. He always told us Witchers can’t have relationships.”

Hearing that from another Witcher only confirms what he’s been telling himself. No relationships. It’s better this way, he isn’t distracted and he doesn’t doom some poor soul to this life. “We’re not in a relationship,” he says quietly.

“What? Just a warm your bed a night type thing?”

“No,” Geralt snaps.

Lambert chuckles, “Ah, now I understand why you’re so sour.”

“You know nothing,” Geralt turns his back fully on Lambert and looks intently at the book but he can’t read anything right now.

Lambert is undeterred, “You should tell him you know. Unless he doesn’t share your particular interests.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, and reluctantly turns back to face Lambert, “I don’t know what his _interests_ are.”

“Does he seem interested in you?”

“Sometimes. It’s probably in my head.”

Lambert gives Geralt a dry look, “Sure. What’s his name?”

Geralt hesitates, “Dandelion,” he feels like he’s giving away sacred information.

Lambert nods, “Dandelion,” he repeats, “Cute. Good luck.”

* * *

Over winter he makes a promise to himself to tell Dandelion how he feels in the spring. On the way down the mountain, he rehearses over and over what he will say and prepares himself for every possible response.

When Geralt does arrive at the manor instead what he says is an awkward and stuttered, “I missed you.”

Dandelion beams, “I missed you, too,” and ushers him inside. The words he had memorised all abandon him and he ends up not saying anything.

When he leaves Dandelion accompanies him again. It’s never the right time to confess.

Dandelion brings his lute this time, the one he originally had which Geralt can now see is far superior to the one he bought him. He brings the one Geralt bought him as well though, and Geralt’s heart flutters at the sight.

* * *

“I’m surprised you’re so comfortable out here,” Geralt voices shyly one night as they lay side by side in their bedrolls.

Dandelion rolls onto his side to face him, “What do you mean?”

Geralt shrugs, regretting saying anything, “Just, you know. You’re a lord. Didn’t think you’d like sleeping in forests every night.”

Dandelion chuckles and nods, “A fair assumption. I wasn’t always a lord, as you know. My Uncle Igor didn’t take me in until I was sixteen.”

“And before then?” Geralt asks quietly. He’s never asked Dandelion about his childhood, if it isn’t brought up then it must be a sore topic – something he is intimately familiar with.

Dandelion chews his lip, “My family were fairly well off. My mother was Igor’s sister, so she brought some wealth and my father ran a good business. He died when I was young, I don’t really remember him, but he left enough money that we could afford two maids and a big house.”

Geralt remains quiet, not wanting to interrupt. It’s clear Dandelion hasn’t spoken about this to anyone before.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends in my village. I was too rich and too sheltered to play with them. I loved my mother though, and she loved me. She died when I was fourteen and then I didn’t have any of my family money. I had to work to get by.”

Geralt reaches out a hand and gently takes Dandelion’s and squeezes it. He squeezes back and Geralt wants nothing more than to take him in his arms but he resists. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Dandelion smiled sadly, “Other people had it a lot worse than I did. But I knew what it was like to live day to day before my Uncle made me his heir. So that’s why I like being out here with you. My time with my uncle was less than pleasant, he made me into something I didn’t want to be – when I’m with you I feel like I’m who I used to be. Who I’m supposed to be.”

Geralt’s breath halts in his chest and for a long moment they just look at each other. “I feel the same,” he breaks the silence hesitantly. “My mother left me by the roadside when I was just a boy. That’s where Vesemir found me. Training at Kaer Morhen turned me into something I didn’t want to be. But with you I feel normal.”

“You are normal,” Dandelion whispers. It’s dark and Geralt can only see him from the moonlight but the sincerity on his face is clear. “Being a Witcher doesn’t make you bad, or evil, or anything like that. You’re good. You make me want to be good.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. He wants to say that Dandelion is already good, that it’s the other way around. That Dandelion is the best thing that has happened to him and ever will happen to him. But the words don’t form. Instead, he squeezes his hand again and they fall asleep with their fingers interlocked.

* * *

It’s been a tough month.

No town has had any contracts and they’ve been chased out of most settlements. Geralt wishes Dandelion would just give up on him and go home. He doesn’t deserve to be shunned because he keeps the company of a Witcher. He deserves a roof over his head, food and a bed.

Money had solved most of their issues. The past few summers that Geralt has been travelling with Dandelion follow mostly the same pattern. Dandelion will bring a large amount of coin and jewellery so when an inn keeper is inclined to turn them away, he can bribe with extra. Then as the months pass Dandelion’s money runs low and they’re far enough south his lordly title does nothing. By the end of summer, they live off whatever Geralt can hunt and it’s lucky they need to start heading north again.

They’ve reached that point again.

Geralt wakes up later than usual – the lack of food is taking its toll. He knows Dandelion must be more affected than him. He sits up and looks to the side but he isn’t sleeping next to him.

In fact, he isn’t there at all. Neither is Salmon.

Dread sets into Geralt’s stomach when he realises that Dandelion has finally left him. It’s a wonder he didn’t hear him leave. But all his stuff is still at camp. He’d left in a hurry.

Geralt sourly packs up camp and gets Roach ready to ride. It was always bound to happen. Foolishly he had thought that after all these years it might not. At the very least he expected it to come in the form of Dandelion simply staying at his estate for summer.

Roach buts her head into his chest and his frown deepens.

“Shut up.”

She buts him again and he sighs.

“He’s left. Get used to it.” The words are as much for him as they are for her.

A twig breaks in the distance and Geralt grabs his sword at the ready. It’s Dandelion who comes through the foliage.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt blurts out.

Dandelion scans the now empty camp, “Were you leaving?”

Geralt blushes and finally puts away his sword, “I thought you left.”

Dandelion shakes his head, “As if I’d ever. I went to town.”

The only town nearby was the one they had been chased out of the day before. It didn’t make sense for Dandelion to go back.

“Why?”

It’s then that he registers the fact that Salmon is no longer by his side. Neither is his fancy lute, he only carries the one Geralt bought for him that first summer. His rings are missing too.

Dandelion tosses him a full and heavy coin pouch, “We needed the money and it’s a long trip back north.”

Geralt looks at the pouch in his hand, it will certainly be more than enough to last them until they made it home. “Salmon?”

Dandelion sighs heavily and kicks at the ground, “The merchant wouldn’t give me the right amount for just the lute and jewellery. He wanted more,” he says bitterly, “He had some other horses, though. They looked well taken care of. Salmon’s in good hands.”

Geralt swallows his guilt. This is his fault. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Dandelion rides behind him on Roach when they set off. Geralt can feel every bit of contact as Dandelion’s chest is flush against his back. They haven’t shared a horse since he first took him home.

Geralt is sad to see Salmon go, he was a good horse and Roach is clearly missing the company. Dandelion’s arms around his waist do manage to ease the pain somewhat though.

* * *

Dandelion likes to sleep well past dawn until late morning when Geralt has to wake him up. During the hours when Geralt is awake and lingering around camp he uses the opportunity to practice his sword skills. He fights against imaginary opponents with Roach as his only audience.

He spins and brings his sword down against his would-be-attacker and sees Dandelion sitting up and watching him with a smile.

“Do continue.”

Geralt hesitates and then does so. It’s been years since anyone watched him fight something that wasn’t there. He tries not to pay any attention to the feeling of being watched but he knows he messes up some moves.

“Why do you do that?” Dandelion asks after a while.

“What do you mean?”

“Fight someone who’s not there.”

Geralt shrugs, “I need to keep in practice in case I need to fight someone.”

Dandelion stands up and stretches, “I realise that much. I mean why not just ask me?”

Geralt frowns, “I’m not following.”

Dandelion walks over to his pack and grabs the sword he usually wears at his waist. It’s not as long as Geralt’s is but it looks to be a sturdy weapon and of course the handle is embedded in jewels.

“This isn’t just for show,” he rotates his wrist and sweeps the sword through the air, “I do know how to use it.”

Geralt looks at Dandelion and his muscular stature. Dandelion is almost as tall as him in fact and certainly strong. From what he knows of his uncle he realises that the man wouldn’t have allowed his nephew to be ignorant of the ways of the sword.

“Alright, but a Witcher’s training is going to be far superior to that of a nobles.”

“Of course,” Dandelion nods seriously and is failing to contain a laugh.

“And I don’t want to hurt you, so I’ll go easy on you.”

Dandelion places his hand over his heart, “How gracious of you.”

Geralt sighs knowing that the lord isn’t taking his warning seriously. Nevertheless, he knows to hold back and to play defence so that he doesn’t hurt him. The thought of Dandelion getting hurt because of him sits unpleasantly in his stomach and he regrets accepting this offer.

Dandelion is already swinging his sword and Geralt nearly misses blocking the attack. Geralt quickly learns that Dandelion is talented with a sword, he’s fast and strong and whoever taught him had a wealth of knowledge. His footwork is impeccable and he never slips into a messy stance.

Geralt switches from defence to attack instinctively, used to doing so when fighting his brothers. He regrets it when he swings his sword down hard and his heart stops at the movement and the harm it is about to inflict. But Dandelion easily blocks the move and steps out of reach. Geralt hesitates before making his next move and Dandelion uses his stillness to land a hard hit to his chest with the flat of his blade.

“You still going easy on me?” Dandelion grins cockily and steps back a few paces and swings his sword round in a circle.

Geralt tilts his head to the side and can’t help but mirror Dandelion’s smile, “Not anymore.”

They walk forward and their swords meet again. The sounds of metal on metal can be heard all through the surrounding forest, Roach pays them no mind and is enjoying a rich breakfast from the grassy patch near her.

Geralt is panting hard and steps into his next strike. Dandelion parries it easily and spins out of the way and ends up behind Geralt and hits his lower back with the flat of his sword again. Geralt spins and hits Dandelion’s arm with the flat of his.

Dandelion charges and feints a hit from the left and switches to the right at the last second. Geralt manages to block the attack but with a flick of his wrist Dandelion circles Geralt’s sword with his own and it flies out of his hand. Geralt’s sword lands in the dirt a few yards away.

Dandelion doesn’t give up the fight and swings from the right. Geralt ducks to dodge it and leans back to avoid his second strike. He rolls to the floor and grabs his sword. He raises so he’s kneeling ready to strike but it’s too late. Dandelion has his sword pressed to Geralt’s neck and he uses it to tilt Geralt’s head up to look at him.

They’re both panting heavily and neither of them move to keep the fight going. Geralt can’t look away from Dandelion’s eyes. His heart is pounding faster than a Witcher’s should and it’s not from the fight.

Geralt licks his lips and he notices Dandelion’s eyes dart down to track the movement and the way they linger before meeting his own again.

“Gotcha,” Dandelion says but his voice is barely above a whisper.

Geralt gulps and his throat moves the cold sword still pressed to his skin. Dandelion moves the sword away so it’s hanging limply by his side. Geralt rises slowly, leaving his sword on the floor, when he stands he’s less than a foot away from Dandelion.

He can feel the heat radiating from him. Can see the small darker rim of his blue eyes. His palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry. He’s never felt like this before.

“Geralt,” Dandelion whispers and moves closer, not that there’s much space left between them anyway.

“Dandelion,” Geralt replies even quieter. He flicks his eyes down to look at Dandelion’s plump lips. Dandelion licks his lips and Geralt decides that he’s not letting this moment slip through his fingers.

He leans forward and captures Dandelion’s lips in his own. It’s soft, at first, he doesn’t want to scare him away or demand too much. Dandelion can back away if he needs to, who would want to kiss a Witcher, after all?

Dandelion doesn’t back away. He responds just as soft and brings a hand up to thread through Geralt’s hair and pull him even closer. They’re chest to chest, Geralt snakes an arm around Dandelion’s waist.

Geralt deepens the kiss and holds him tighter. This is all he has wanted since Dandelion saved him from the roadside. He thinks that if all his suffering lead to this moment then it must have been worth it to have Dandelion in his arms.

When they pull away for air they can’t keep the soft tentative smiles off their faces.

“I should’ve asked you to spar sooner,” Geralt says, his voice slightly hoarse. He immediately regrets the words because they’ve surely killed the mood.

Dandelion only laughs and bumps their foreheads together, “You absolutely should have.”

* * *

“Took you long enough,” Eskel huffs after Geralt tells him the whole story.

Geralt throws a pillow at him but Eskel easily catches it, “Shut up. Just don’t tell Vesemir.”

Lambert smirks, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It had been harder than ever to leave Dandelion for the winter. Geralt didn’t want to give up what he had. Now that he had Dandelion he was addicted to every touch. It had been easier in some senses though, he didn’t have to agonise over his feelings this year. He had never been as confident in anything than he had been in his and Dandelion’s love.

The downside was Lambert and Eskel’s merciless teasing.

“Never took you for the romantic type, Geralt,” Eskel laughs, “If we ever meet this Dandelion, I’m gonna tell him all about how much of a whiny kid you used to be.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Eskel turns to Lambert, “Do you remember how stroppy he was when he was still too small to hold a sword without falling over?”

Lambert nods seriously, “The stroppiest.”

Geralt sighs, “This is why neither of you are ever meeting him.”

* * *

“This isn’t what we agreed upon,” Geralt growls to the alderman. The old man was trying to give him well less than half the coin he had originally stated – usually, he’d leave it be but he’d taken a lot of damage fighting the wyvern and the amount the alderman was trying to give him would barely cover medical supplies.

“Be grateful you’re getting anything, Witcher,” the alderman spits.

Dandelion pushes in front of Geralt, “You should be grateful he dealt with your monster problem.”

The alderman sneers, “Don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong, lad.”

“It belongs right here,” Dandelion insists. He grabs the advertisement from his pocket and slams it down on the alderman’s table, Geralt has no idea where he got that from but he knows this is going to end badly. “It says right here, ‘Witcher desperately needed. Wyvern. Two hundred oren.’ Do you make a habit of telling lies, sir?”

“Don’t call me a liar, boy.”

“Then don’t be one,” Dandelion counters, “You think that forty oren even compensates for a sliver of the damage?”

The alderman shrugs, “It’s all I have.”

Dandelion nods, “Ah so you are a liar. I’m sure Geralt’s fellow Witchers will be pleased to know and avoid this town if you encounter any future difficulties.”

“Dandelion, leave it,” Geralt says lowly to him.

Dandelion only spares him a glance and glares at the alderman, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The alderman grits his teeth, “Fine.” He reluctantly hands over another pouch of coin.

Dandelion takes it and counts it, “This only adds up to a hundred. That’s still less than half.”

“It’s all you’re getting.”

Dandelion grinds his teeth together and steps forward but Geralt puts a hand on his chest. “Let’s go.”

Finally, Dandelion looks at him and there’s rage burning in his eyes. Geralt puts a hand on his arm and manages to drag him out into the street.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Geralt shakes his head.

Dandelion scoffs, “What? Get you the money you deserve.”

Geralt sighs, “It’s not worth it.” Most hunts end up with him accepting less pay than he deserves. It’s better than being stoned out of a town. And next time he or a fellow Witcher comes by hopefully the town won’t be as unwelcoming if he doesn’t make a scene.

“It is worth it!” Dandelion argues, charging ahead down the street to the stables. “You save their life and for what?”

“It’s the life.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Dandelion turns on him, Geralt has no idea why his anger is now being directed at him. “You shouldn’t let them. You deserve more than what they give you. Why can’t you see that?”

“You don’t understand,” Geralt barges past him and continues on to Roach. There’s a wound on his arm that needs bandaging.

Dandelion follows after him, “Then tell me. Make me understand why you refuse to value yourself and your services.”

Geralt says nothing and gets the bandages from Roach’s saddlebag. He pats her neck to calm himself down. He doesn’t want to fight Dandelion, doesn’t want that to be the thing that finally makes him leave.

He struggles to tie the bandage and Dandelion silently steps forward and takes it from him. Dandelion is quiet and brooding as he wraps it up and refuses to look Geralt in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says quietly.

Dandelion sighs and finally looks at him. It’s no longer anger burning in his eyes but sadness. “It’s not your fault.”

* * *

They’re in some backwater town out west. It’s a wet a dreary day and Geralt is sure that any minute now the roof is going to start leaking. The tavern is jam-packed and the smell of sweat and spilt beer is overwhelming. He’s incredibly close to going back out into the rain to get away from it all.

Dandelion is sat cross-legged on top of a table with his lute out. His long hair is dripping wet, as are his clothes, and sticking to his skin. He has the biggest smile on his face as he performs song after song.

There’s a good amount of coin being thrown at him. Not as much as he should be getting from a crowd this big, Geralt thinks bitterly, but decent enough.

Despite the drenched conditions of everyone in sight they all are happy to listen to Dandelion sing for them and forget how terrible the day is. Geralt sits quietly in the corner not wanting to draw any attention to himself – no one has noticed him yet and he’d like to keep it that way.

Every so often Dandelion will send a smile and a wink his way. He loves him. Geralt loves him with everything he has.

“This is for someone I love with my whole heart,” Dandelion says as he switches from a more upbeat song into one of his softer songs. Geralt hasn’t heard him play it before and he wonders when he wrote it.

Dandelion keeps his eyes on him as he sings and Geralt feels a small blush creeping up his face. He wants to duck his head and look away but he’s transfixed on him.

_It’s what my heart just yearns to say_

_In ways that can’t be said_

_It’s what my rotting bones will sing_

_When the rest of me is dead_

_It’s what’s engraved upon my heart_

_In letters deeply worn_

_Today I somehow understand the reason I was born_

_It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you_

_It’s not fair_

_Cause you make me laugh when I’m actually_

_Really fucking cross at you for something_

_And he’ll say_

_Oh how, how unreasonable_

_How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do_

_I’ll spend my days so close to you_

_Then if I’m stood here_

_And I’ll stand here_

_I’ll stand here with you_

The crowd applauds but Geralt can barely hear them. All he can see is Dandelion. Dandelion holds his gaze, smiles, and mouths, “I love you.” Geralt thinks that a Witcher’s life is never supposed to be like this, and he must be the luckiest man alive because he surely doesn’t deserve this.

* * *

Geralt runs his fingers through Dandelion’s hair and sighs softly. The oil keeping it in place most days has come unravelled with Geralt’s fingers and now the long brown locks are messy and spread out on the pillow.

“What?” Dandelion asks with a gentle lazy smile.

“Nothing,” Geralt averts his gaze but a blush creeps into his cheeks.

“Tell me,” Dandelion whines, nudging Geralt’s chest and even still the feeling sends warmth spreading through his skin. “Tell me and I’ll sing for you.”

Geralt side-eyes the man, but he does love to hear him sing, “Fine. Don’t laugh.”

“I promise.”

“I like your hair,” the words struggle to escape his mouth and they are barely above a whisper.

Dandelion raises an eyebrow, “Is that it?”

“I mean I wish mine was as long as yours,” Geralt explains better, threading his fingers through Dandelions hair and admiring the length of it. It was longer than when he had first met him. The ends reached the tops of his shoulders, whereas Geralt still took a blade to his hair and chopped it every few weeks when it grew too long and got in his eyes.

Dandelion reaches up to touch his white hair, it’s longer than it’s ever been right now. Long and curly and falling just past his ears, it was just about long enough to get in his eyes but not long enough to tie it back yet. The only reason he hadn’t already cut it was because Dandelion had been braiding it back for him before hunts. Geralt pretended that the only benefit was that all his hair was out of his vision and couldn’t be pulled by a monster; but the truth was he loved Dandelion’s fingers in his hair threading each strand into place.

When it was night and just the two of them, he liked it hanging free, and that had the added bonus of putting Dandelion’s fingers back in his hair to brush out the elaborate braids.

“Yours is already long. I thought you’d want it shorter?”

Geralt shakes his head, “This is the longest I’ve ever had it,” he tugs on a curl and pulls it out in front of his eyes. It’s barely over three inches long, but each centimetre feels like rebellion. “At Kaer Morhen they shave the boys heads. At any one time they’ll have forty boys in training. They let the hair grow to about here,” he moves his fingers up the strand of hair until it’s an inch away from his scalp, “Then shave it off. It’s easier than having a barber to manage the upkeep of hairstyles. After you leave, they don’t care.”

Dandelion frowns at that information. Geralt can see the whirlwind of thoughts flying through his mind and the anger and indignation both evident in his eyes. He even catches the scent of despair. He knows there’s a lot that the lord wants to say, but instead all he says is, “I think you’ll look lovely with long hair.”

* * *

Dandelion works his fingers through Geralt’s hair methodically pulling the stands into a braid. Geralt relaxes into the touch and feels himself settling into a calm before the hunt. His hair nearly reaches his chin now and the weight is beginning to flatten some of his curls.

It’s just about long enough to tie back now but he prefers Dandelion’s braids.

“All done,” Dandelion whispers from behind him and presses a kiss to Geralt’s neck that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Thank you.”

He stands up and begins putting on his armour.

“I can help, you know,” Dandelion says quietly and Geralt almost drops his shoulder piece.

“What?”

Dandelion blushes, “I can help. You know I’m good with a sword. And you said it’s more drowners than usual so you can use the help.”

Geralt instantly fills with dread at the thought of Dandelion being anywhere close to a hunt. “Absolutely not.”

“Geralt-“

“No.”

Geralt leaves and makes his way to where the drowners had been spotted about a mile out of town. Dandelion had been sulky with him when he left but Geralt is just glad that he’s safe and far away from harm.

The alderman had told him it would be fifteen drowners. When he arrives he realises it’s a whole nest and somewhere closer to thirty. He curses but instinct kicks in and begins to fight.

He’s killed about ten when he manages to duck behind a large boulder for cover so he can down another potion. The drowners have dispersed and he can hear them slowly surrounding him.

Beyond them he hears another sound. Footsteps coming along the path. Great now he has to look out for some traveller as well. As the footsteps get closer Geralt smells the floral chamomile soap they use and instantly knows who it is.

He jumps out from the boulder and slices into the nearest drowner. As he thought, he spots Dandelion closing in on the fight.

“Stay back,” he yells, turning his sword on another. His heart is in his throat.

“Like hell,” Dandelion replies and cuts at a drowner near him. It takes him a few blows but he manages to kill it.

Geralt is fending off five of them and he knows there’s more left that will be making their way to Dandelion.

“Dandelion, I said stay back!”

Dandelion ignores him and continues pressing forward until he’s side by side with him. Geralt feels slightly better about having Dandelion closer to him but that also means the leftover drowners are surrounding them now.

“Told you you’d need help.”

Geralt growls, “Don’t let them bite you.”

He sweeps at a drowner and he can hear Dandelion fighting behind him. Geralt wants to look over his shoulder but he can’t break his concentration. The constant sound of Dandelion’s sword is enough to let him know he’s still alive and fighting.

Eventually, the drowners are all dead. He turns to Dandelion and instantly starts patting him down looking for injuries.

“I’m fine, none of the blood's mine,” Dandelion laughs easily.

“Never do that again,” Geralt glares, “It’s way too dangerous.”

“Would have been worse for you if I wasn’t here.”

“I can handle it alone.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Dandelion reaches out to take Geralt’s hand in his and he feels the tension slip from his shoulder.

Geralt breathes in his scent and lets the chamomile relax him, even if it’s now barely there over the stench of drowner blood and guts. “Don’t follow me again.”

“I’ll always follow you.”

* * *

It’s mid-afternoon. The sun is blaring down on them but Dandelion is strumming softly on his lute and singing and that is enough to make it a good day. Geralt is leading Roach by the reins and walking next to Dandelion, the girl deserves a break in this heat.

There’s a village a few miles ahead but he doesn’t care about getting there quickly. He looks to his side at Dandelion who is walking with his eyes closed and face upturned to soak in the sun.

This is all he could ever want.

Dandelion eventually sets aside his lute and lets his hands swing by his side. Their hands brush together as they walk side by side, it’s too hot to hold hands. Each small touch sends electricity running through Geralt’s veins, even after all these years.

“Think we’ll make camp tonight?”

Geralt shrugs and glances at him, “Probably, the village is-”

Dandelion isn’t next to him.

He’s up in the air.

In the grip of some large monster.

Geralt draws his sword in an instant and slashes at the beast. It’s well over twice the size of a kikimora, it looks vaguely spiderish with six long legs but it also has arms with long claws that are holding Dandelion like a rag doll. Geralt slices at the creature, it screeches but doesn’t falter and starts to attack with Dandelion still firmly in its grip.

Dandelion’s lute crashes to the ground, barely missing Geralt. Geralt curses himself for not seeing the monster sooner – all the teachings had been right, love was distracting.

He manages to sever one of the legs and the monster screams and tosses Dandelion aside. His body lands below some trees and doesn’t move. Panic rises in Geralt’s throat and he fights more ferociously.

When he dares to spare a look at Dandelion his yellow doublet is nearly red with blood. He still isn’t moving. He fights like he’s never fought before. Each second that passes is a second that costs Dandelion his life. Geralt prays to God he still has life left to save.

The monster finally crashes to the ground and Geralt drives his sword deep into its head. When he’s sure it’s dead he rushes to Dandelion’s side.

There’s so much blood and Dandelion’s eyes are glazed over and looking at the sky. He’s breathing, barely. Tears well in Geralt’s eyes as he presses as hard as he can on the wound in Dandelion’s stomach – there’s too many littering his body.

He needs a healer or a mage, and soon.

“No, no, no,” Geralt hyperventilates, pressing harder into the rapidly bleeding wounds. The forest floor is already damp and thick with it. “Come back, come back.”

Geralt presses harder and Dandelion groans in pain loudly and the haze somewhat disappears from his eyes.

“Geralt,” Dandelion says softly, his voice is thick with blood and Geralt can barely hear him. Tears run freely down his face, he doesn’t care. He can’t lose him.

“Dandelion,” he chokes and presses harder, his hands moving to try and stem the bleeding from his collarbone, his leg. “It’s going to be okay. We just have to get to Roach and to the next town.” He glances over his shoulder, Roach is still faithfully by the roadside.

It’s not too far. He can still save him.

He moves his arms under Dandelion’s shoulders and begins to lift him but he lets out a blood curdling scream and Geralt sets him back down. His heart is beating fast, faster than even a human's. He moves so he’s at Dandelion’s side and pressing on his wounds again.

Roach has bandages but she’s too far. Geralt doesn’t know what to do. He’s not prepared for this.

Dandelion is breathing heavy and is much calmer than Geralt is. He reaches up and presses a weak bloody hand to Geralt’s face. Geralt leans desperately into the touch.

“I’m going to die, my love,” Dandelion says with the same amount of casualness as if he had just announced he was going to the market. He wipes the tears that are rolling down Geralt’s face. He can’t stop crying. He isn’t ready for this. He will never be ready.

“No,” Geralt denies, taking Dandelion into his lap and rocking him. The flow of blood in his wounds is slowing down and Dandelion is growing limper by the minute. He knows what this means. Of course he does. That doesn’t mean he has to accept it. “No. Fuck that. You’re not going to die. I need you.”

Dandelion smiles and it hurts. How can he smile at a time like this when Geralt has never felt this much pain. He would gladly live the Witcher trials on repeat or be tortured for the rest of his days if it meant Dandelion lived.

“Don’t be silly. You don’t need anyone. You’re my strong Witcher, always keeping me out of trouble.”

Not this time, Geralt thinks bitterly. It’s his fault this happened. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. Should have kept him safe. Shouldn’t have let him come in the first place.

Dandelion tugs at Geralt with barely there force and Geralt goes willingly and crashes his lips into his. He savours it. It’s a horrible mix of Dandelion’s blood and Geralt’s tears and he never wants it to end.

“I can’t lose you,” Geralt confesses. His throat feels like it’s closing up.

“I’ll always be with you,” Dandelion puts his hand above Geralt’s heart. Geralt puts his own hand over his and squeezes it.

Dandelion’s hand slowly drops from his chest and his eyes haze over again and roll away from Geralt.

The weight Geralt always feels on his chest when around Dandelion turns from good to absolutely awful. He can’t breathe. He sobs and gathers Dandelion’s body in his arms.

“No, no, no,” is all he can say as Dandelion slowly turns cold.

He sits there through the night refusing to let go of him.

When the sun starts to rise Geralt finally gathers up the shreds of his strength to move away from Dandelion. He doesn’t have a shovel and digs a grave with his bare hands. The soil is soft but it takes hours to dig a big enough and deep enough hole – he can’t stand the thought of digging a shallow grave and having some forest creature dig up his remains.

Dandelion looks unnaturally pale and Geralt swallows down the hurt. The blood on his face and clothes have dried so they’re a rusty brown. He walks over to Roach and fishes out Dandelion’s spare clothes, a green doublet and fresh chemise and trousers. He grabs his waterskin and a spare rag.

Carefully, he undresses Dandelion and wets the rag so he can wash away the dried blood from his skin. He can clearly see the extent of his wounds now. There was no way a healer would have been able to save him.

This is his fault.

The monster still lies dead and rotting. Geralt doesn’t even know what it is. Some kind of insectoid.

When Dandelion is cleaned of blood Geralt carefully dresses him in the clean clothes. His body is stiff and heavy. He almost looks unharmed when he’s dressed apart from his deathly pallor and the twist of his leg. He bundles up the bloodied clothes and sets fire to them.

As gently as he can he takes Dandelion in his arms. He presses a kiss to his forehead and tears form in his eyes again but he holds them back. Geralt lowers him into the grave and places his broken lute on top of him.

He feels sick when he covers him with the soil. He deserved so much better than this. He deserved a full life until old age, deserved a nice death, deserved an actual coffin and a gravestone.

Geralt walks the road back the way he came until he finds the patches of wildflowers Dandelion had been admiring the day before. Has it already been a day? He plucks as many as his arms can hold and brings them back. He places them gently over the raised ground until it looks like its own flower bed.

He doesn’t salvage anything from the monster to bring to town in hopes of coin. He couldn’t take any benefit from the monster that had killed Dandelion.

Geralt rides Roach away from Dandelion’s grave and leaves his heart behind with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the songs used are Would You Be So Kind by Dodie and Fair by The Amazing Devil
> 
> hope you enjoyed! my tumblr is @pansexualbuchanan if you wanna find me <3


	3. i'll always be with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case the last chapter didn't hurt enough, here's Dandelion's POV! (and some extra scenes)

Dandelion comes running home to his mother one sunny afternoon in tears. It takes almost an hour to console him past the point of incomprehensible blubber.

“She cursed me!” he cries, his eyes and cheeks red and puffy.

“Who?” His mother pets his head calmly.

“Anathea.”

His mother’s eyebrows draw close together. Everyone in their town knew of the strange little girl. She was born with deformed legs that had rendered them useless and bound her to a chair. Her face suffered too, a crooked cheekbone that crunched her face almost in half and bright orange eyes.

There had been rumours of the unnatural happenings that surrounded the girl. Parents whispered of the objects that had rattled when she screamed as a babe. School children ran screaming when the little girl could make a plucked flower shrivel and die in the palm of her hand.

“What happened?” His mother’s voice remains calm but Dandelion notices the tension in her voice which does nothing to ease the panic in his chest. She leads him to their kitchens and dismisses the two servants who are prepping dinner.

She picks him up and places him on the counter so he is eye level with her.

“I was playing with the others when we saw her sitting alone in the field. I asked her to play and she said yes. I started making up a song about her and she started crying—I didn’t mean to upset her!” He shrinks under his mother’s disapproving stare. “It was just about her eyes being orange and burning brighter than the sun!”

“Uh-huh.”

Dandelion fiddles his fingers. “The other boys may have joined in. They said she looked like a snake.”

“Did you stop them?”

Dandelion looks at his feet. “No. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not who you need to apologise to. What happened next?”

“Then she started screaming that we would pay. She said that I would live forever see everything I love die and turn to ash,” he begins to cry again.

His mother takes him into her arms and holds him close. She sings a lullaby and he listens to the soothing vibrations in her chest. He begins to hum along with her as he calms down.

“Don’t you worry, my Dandelion,” his mother whispers and gently strokes his back. “Anathea’s just a girl. She can’t hurt you. It’s just a trick.”

Dandelion relaxes, humming his lullaby in time with his mother. He doesn’t see the worried and haunted look on her face.

* * *

He is fourteen when his mother dies. It’s a slow illness that takes her and no healer can do anything for her. Buttercups grow above her grave.

Dandelion had once wondered if Anathea would have ever been able to do anything about it. Turn the tumours that grew in his mother’s lungs to shrivelled dead things like she had done with the flowers. He hadn’t seen her in several years though. One day a stern looking woman had come to town and took her away. They never did find out what happened to the girl. Dandelion hoped she was alright, wherever she was.

After his mother passes, he gets a job as the blacksmith's apprentice in town. He can’t afford the keep of the two servants, Maya and Clara, that had helped raise him. They had understood well enough and wished him good fortune when they packed their things and left his quiet home even quieter.

He doesn’t see them after that.

When he turns sixteen, he barely earns enough to scrape by. That is when his uncle rides into town on the back of a large stallion with a carriage being hauled by two horses behind him.

His mother’s brother had never given them any attention. He was the lord of some lands up north and had cut off all contact with his sister when she had married Dandelion’s father. They hadn’t needed the money that was rightfully hers. His father was wealthy enough to support them, even after he was killed by bandits when Dandelion was just a babe. His wealth had been enough for his mother and him to live comfortably. Until now.

His Uncle Igor bore no resemblance to his mother, Dandelion thinks. While his mother had been soft features and a kind smile, this man has a straight face and a sharp jawline defined by a beard.

Dandelion has no say in whether he goes with Uncle Igor. His father’s money had run out and he needed the security that family would bring. It was a three-week trek to the manor his uncle owned. It was nearly three times the size of his previous home and they had been one of the wealthiest families in the town.

Igor has no time for softness.

He puts Dandelion in lessons the day they arrive. He must learn the names of all the nobility. He must learn his numbers, his grammar, how to behave around others, how to fight, how to be a lord. There is no time for play.

Dandelion is not allowed to talk to the servants his own age, or any of them for that matter. He is not allowed to run around the grounds. He is not allowed to climb the old brick walls or the gangly trees.

The one blessing Igor puts in his hands is that of music.

Every nobleman must know the craft of a musical instrument. Igor wants him to learn how to play the piano. But Dandelion remembers being eleven years old when a travelling bard with a lute came to town and he danced with his mother for hours in the street. He demands to learn the lute and Igor gives in.

The next week when his tutor arrives and puts a lute in his hands; he feels like he has a piece of his mother once again. He’s beginning to forget her face, and he doesn’t have the luxury of a portrait, but when he plays he can hear her laugh and feel her hold him close and safe from the world.

When he plays the lute he feels at home.

* * *

When he is twenty, Uncle Igor has a stroke. Dandelion is no longer the resident ward. He is now Lord Dandelion de Sade.

After his uncle’s death a man names Bras visits the manor and tells him he used to study with his uncle. Dandelion never knew his uncle had studied at Ban Ard. His first thought is to wonder whether his mother could have been a mage too, or if he himself had the power to wield chaos. His second thought is regret at missing the opportunity to ask about the curse Anathea had placed on him and if it was real.

Bras does not stay for long. He looks at Dandelion oddly for the duration of his stay.

“You need to do a lot of growing up, boy, if you ever hope to fill Igor’s shoes.”

Dandelion shrinks under the man’s gaze. Bras leaves the next morning and he never returns.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, he sees the soft features of his mother. His chubby cheeks, his soft arms and short floppy hair. He stops shaving and lets his facial hair grow out. Much to his reluctance, it takes some time to stop looking patchy.

He lets his hair grow out and keeps it slicked back with oils. He practices how to fight and hires another tutor. He practices every day until the flab on his stomach and arms turns into muscle and he looks the part.

By the time he’s twenty-two, he looks in the mirror and doesn’t see himself. He seems to be the spitting image of Igor, all except for his mother’s eyes and his cheeks which never really became as chiselled as his uncle. He looks like a lord.

The staff call him ‘sir’ and he’s stopped correcting them. He hates what he has become. He begins to go on longer trips away from the manor.

The first time he makes the three-day trip to the nearest village he is overwhelmed by the amount of noise the local tavern spits out into the street. All he has known for the past few years have been politeness. He sits in the back of the tavern and lets all the sound wash over him and pretend he’s still a boy and nothing has changed.

A month later he goes back, lute in hand this time. He doesn’t go to the busy tavern. He goes to the quieter one down the street. He plays a few simple tunes he had learnt and a few he remembers from childhood. He doesn’t get booed off stage and the patrons seem happy with his entertainment. He begins to feel a little bit more like himself with each trip.

He knows it’s a bad idea to travel out so close to winter. It’s a month before the first snows are due to set and he wants to perform at least once more before he’ll be holed up in the cold lonely manor all season.

Dandelion misjudges how long he needs to travel. He gets caught up in the snow on his way back home and urges his horse faster. He’s nearly home when he sees a man curled up in the snow by a blown out fire.

He doesn’t think before he’s taking him with him and bringing him home. The stranger almost falls off the back of his horse but Dandelion holds the stranger’s arms tighter around his waist and rides faster.

* * *

Dandelion isn’t expecting his guest to still be in the bath when he barges into the guest room. His mouth runs dry at the sight of the man’s muscles bare before him. He awkwardly introduces himself and hates every word that tumbles out of his mouth.

When his guest, Geralt, tells him of how he hasn’t eaten he grasps the opportunity to do something. He flies out of the room and heads to the kitchens. He’s jittery and excited and for some reason, he really wants to impress this Witcher.

He’s making his way back with a plate of cold food as he mulls over the fact that his guest is a Witcher. Igor’s voice rings in the back of his head, telling him to never trust a Witcher to do anything but slaughter monsters like the mindless beasts they are.

Geralt had seemed far from a mindless beast.

Dandelion pushes open the door. “Here, I’ve got you something. It’s not much, but-”

The words die in his mouth and the small quell of disappointment at finding Geralt dressed is quickly cast aside when he sees what he’s wearing. A shirt that is way too tight.

It’s Dandelion’s shirt. One he hadn’t worn in a few years – he had sewn the buttercup design on it himself before Igor had taken it from him saying a lord wouldn’t wear such a thing. He has no idea where the servants got it from.

The shirt is pulled tight over Geralt’s muscles and the buttons are at their breaking point. Geralt didn’t need to be naked anymore because Dandelion can clearly see every indentation of his chest, torso and arms.

“I’ve got the kitchen maid cooking something better but I thought this would do in the meantime,” he says, dragging his eyes back up to meet Geralt’s.

“Thank you,” Geralt takes the platter of food from him and their fingers brush ever so slightly. Dandelion nearly chokes.

He hastily looks away and sits next to him. It takes all of his effort not to look at Geralt because if he does, he’ll do something reckless like reach out and touch one of his bulging arm muscles.

“Is everything okay?” Geralt is staring at the side of his face. Dandelion tries to remember if Witchers can read minds. He doesn’t think they can. Oh god, they probably can.

“Yes. Good. Excellent,” he nods sporadically. Why did Geralt have to be so handsome? Weren’t Witchers meant to be ugly? “Well, I’ll leave you be,” he dismisses himself. He doesn’t want to leave but god knows what he’ll say to embarrass himself if he stays.

“You’re welcome to stay for as long as you need,” he hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he thinks he does. Dandelion can’t help himself and pats Geralt’s shoulder as he stands, the feeling of Geralt’s warm muscle beneath his hand in enough to send him reeling.

He leaves the room and clenches his hand into a fist and releasing it trying to ease the tingling sensation. Gods, pull yourself together, Dandelion, he thinks.

Dandelion goes back to the kitchen and finds a fresh pot of stew he had forgotten he had asked to be made. He bites his lip as he decides whether to leave it or bring Geralt some. Geralt does deserve hot food so he pours a bowl and brings it back. Except when he pushes open the door Geralt is already sleeping soundly.

He pauses for a moment watching the rise and fall of his chest. His heart has been racing all evening and shows no signs of stopping. Selfishly, he hopes that Geralt doesn’t leave in the morning.

* * *

For the past two days finding Geralt has been a rather large task.

The Witcher had decided to stay, Dandelion had no idea for how long. Except now he couldn’t find him. He wasn’t in his room and none of the servants had seen him. The only thing telling Dandelion he was still here was the fact that his belongings remained and Geralt faithfully showed up to breakfast and dinner.

It’s one of the stable boys who tells him where Geralt is. And that’s when Dandelion realises that Geralt is hiding from his servants who haven’t hidden their distaste.

“There you are,” he can’t help the breathless smile when he finally finds Geralt in the stables. He feels giddy when Geralt smiles back at him.

Dandelion watches as Geralt brushes down Roach and eventually joins him to help clean her. He enjoys watching Geralt with her. He’s soft and gentle in his movements and Roach is calm under his touch – a rare sight to see indeed, she was a very fussy mare.

A small smile tugs at Geralt’s face as they talk and Dandelion wishes he could kiss that smile. It’s easy, talking with him, in a way that’s never been easy. Other lords and ladies speak to him in that polite manner of thinly veiled jabs. Everyone else speaks to him with respect of his position, too afraid to have a real conversation with him. Geralt is the first person he’s spoken to since his mother that doesn’t care about all that.

“What do you name your horses, then?” he asks after Geralt berates his horse naming tradition.

“I’ve only had two. I didn’t name them.”

Dandelion frowns as Geralt’s easy manner closes up. “How could you not name them?”

“Witcher’s aren’t supposed to be distracted by caring for anything,” Geralt explains and Dandelion’s stomach turns a little sour. Any small fancy he had of Geralt caring for him gets trodden into the ground. Of course, he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by caring for a horse or some lord.

“If you don’t name your horse then you don’t get attached.”

“Does it work?” he asks quietly, a small bit of hope still lingering.

“No.”

Dandelion licks his lips and let his hope ignite again. Geralt does care, could care. He looks at Geralt and the sadness that shines in his eyes at the memory of his lost horses.

“Maybe you should name them in the future. See if you can come up with a better name than Roach,” he jokes, attempting to bring back the easy atmosphere.

Geralt offers him a small smile, “Won’t be difficult.”

* * *

Dandelion makes his way down to the stables as he has been doing every day since Geralt arrived. He’s never spent so much time in them. Sure, he had helped out from time to time but never this much.

His eagerness dies in his throat when he sees Geralt dressed in armour and saddlebags packed on Roach. “You’re leaving then,” he leans against the doorway of the stable and folds his arms to hide the fact that they’re shaking.

“Yes.”

Dandelion nods and searches for the right words. How can he ask Geralt to stay when he’s so clearly made up his mind? He must have done something wrong and quickly flicks through the past few days trying to find out what it was he said or did.

“You’re more than welcome to stay here you know. For the winter, or whatever.” Maybe it was because he hadn’t outright said that Geralt could stay, that he was wanted.

“Thank you, but I really must be going,” Geralt turns him down matter-of-factly. Dandelion recognises the tone, the dismissal.

“Right. Yeah. Of course,” he wants to offer him more, anything to get him to stay. He stops before he can make a fool of himself. Geralt mounts Roach and Dandelion blinks back the tears that are threatening to rise. A lord doesn’t cry. A lord doesn’t beg his guests to stay.

“Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Any time. See you around, Geralt,” his throat feels thick and he forces a casual levity into his voice.

Geralt rides away and disappears out of view. Dandelion turns back to the manor feeling the cold of winter like never before.

* * *

Dandelion spends about three weeks moping. Even the servants give him a wide berth. He spends more and more time in the stable even with Geralt’s absence. He found comfort with the horses, or maybe it was just the fact that he could still feel Geralt’s presence there.

He’d never felt so lonely in all his life.

Even when his mother died or during Igor’s lessons, he hadn’t pined for someone as much as he does for Geralt. And he’d only known him a week.

Geralt made him feel like a teenager again. Going down to the market every day in the hopes of spying a glimpse of whoever had taken his fancy that month. It was deeper than that, though. He didn’t just want Geralt for his looks, of which he had plenty, he wanted him because he felt like a missing piece to Dandelion’s soul.

Dandelion even composes a song. He spends several days putting his pining into words. After he’s done, he buries the notes in his journal. He focusses on paperwork dealing with taxes and invitations, a lord should be managing his lands not writing about unrequited love.

With every passing day that spring draws ever nearer he finds himself looking out at the gates for Geralt but he never arrives. He realises Geralt would likely never come back. He had no reason to. He had a horse now and had just come from a keep not a road. Dandelion resigns himself to the knowledge that Geralt will remain a sweet memory.

* * *

Dandelion is in his office reading and rereading some book trying to make the words sink in. There’s a knock at the door followed by his head servant. “Sir, we have an unexpected guest. A Geralt of Rivia. I can turn him away-”

He’s out of his chair in an instant and racing past him. He makes his way through the manor as fast as he can and when he steps into the hallway Geralt is there. It’s like the air is being punched out of him. “Geralt.”

Geralt turns to look at him with a small smile and Dandelion thinks his heart might give out, “Dandelion.” His deep voice washes over him, for the first time all winter he feels warm.

His feet move of their own accord and he makes no move to stop them. Dandelion pulls Geralt in for a tight hug and revels in the feeling of him in his arms. “It’s so good to see you,” for brief moment he lets himself bury his face in Geralt’s neck before stepping back, “Winter has been so boring.”

Dandelion leads Geralt to the kitchen and demands he tells him everything about his winter. It’s a bit like pulling teeth trying to get information from him but it’s worth it to hear Geralt’s deep voice filling the kitchen. He listens enraptured as Geralt tells him about Kaer Morhen and his brothers – he can tell he’s holding back by the pauses he takes between snippets of information. Each word is carefully chosen but when he talks about Eskel and Lambert the words flow a little easier, less guarded.

Geralt asks him about his own winter and he skips over how much he spent thinking about him and tells him about all the dreadful paperwork he was expected to oversee. Truly the worst part of being a lord.

“Oh well, they’re probably not good company anyway.”

“I’m hardly good company,” Geralt says, looking away.

Dandelion feels his heart ache and wants to tell him just how good company he is. “That’s where you’re wrong.” Geralt is the best company he’s had in years.

Geralt is staying the night and Dandelion is already scheming ways to get him to stay. He’ll order the cooks to make the best meals. Order the servants to make sure the bed linens are changed every day and there’s a bath each night. He’ll do everything he can to make Geralt stay for as long as possible.

“Everything to your liking?” he hovers by the door watching Geralt’s reactions intently. Geralt is a master of keeping a straight face so figuring out what he likes and dislikes is a challenge.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You can stay as long as you like, you know. And whenever,” he hopes he sounds casual but he’s fairly sure everyone in Kaedwen can hear the undertone of wanting.

He makes himself leave to get Geralt a bath – an overbearing host is certainly no way to keep a guest. Dandelion considers going back a while later but it’s late. Geralt will be tired. He retires for the night and spends the whole night tossing and turning thinking about Geralt sleeping down the hall from him.

* * *

Dandelion must be lucky because Geralt doesn’t leave right away. He’s even stayed for two whole weeks and let him read him poetry. His luck ends when Geralt comes to breakfast dressed in armour.

“You’re leaving again?” he sounds pathetic, he knows, but he doesn’t care.

“I have to follow the Path.”

He eats his breakfast moodily. He’d gotten used to having Geralt around and now he was leaving again. Dandelion couldn’t stand the thought. Even looking at him across the breakfast table hurts with the knowledge of his imminent departure.

Once he’s finished, he quickly leaves the table and runs to his room. He paces and his mind runs a mile a minute thinking of how he can get Geralt to stay. Maybe he could lie and say there’s a monster nearby. Maybe he could tempt him with even finer foods. Maybe he could tell him how much he wants to stay.

Gods, he’s an idiot.

Then he has the best idea of his life. Just because Geralt is leaving doesn’t mean Dandelion can’t still see him. He can leave to. He hates it here and always has. He doesn’t do anything important. Nothing is keeping him here.

With a laugh he quickly begins to pack a bag. He shoves as many clothes as he can into a satchel. He deliberates bringing his lute but it’s unnecessary weight. He grabs his winter cloak and a hat for good measure and races to Geralt’s room.

Geralt is already gone and his stomach sinks. He can’t have made it far. It’s only been an hour since breakfast and Salmon was a fast horse; he can catch up to Geralt.

He breathes a sigh of relief when Geralt is still at the stables. Apparently waiting for him which makes his heart flutter. It doesn’t take much convincing to let him follow, not that Geralt could have stopped him anyway.

As he leaves the estate he feels all the weight drop off his shoulders. This is what he was meant to do. Fuck Igor. Fuck being a lord.

That first night out in the forest on the cold floor with roots digging into his back and Geralt by his side is the first time he’s felt free since he was sixteen.

* * *

Dandelion has been travelling with Geralt for a few months now and he feels lighter than air. He doesn’t care about the danger. He doesn’t care about the camping and eating roasted rabbit for most of his meals. When he’s with Geralt everything is perfect.

They have been blessed with an inn that is letting them stay for more than one night. He is taking the opportunity to sleep well into the afternoon, something he only gets to do in winter.

His lie-in is interrupted by Geralt returning from wherever he’d been and slowly he forces himself away. He squints against the bright light shining in through the window and stretches out the stiffness of his muscles.

“I got you something.”

“Oh? What is it?” he yawns and stretches again. All he wants right now is to go back to bed (and have Geralt join him).

Wordlessly, Geralt produces a lute from behind his back and Dandelion heart stops. He can’t stop the smile threatening to split his face in two or the way he throws himself at Geralt. He should spare a thought for the fact that he’s still very much shirtless but he doesn’t care and grabs at the lute.

It’s not the best quality but it’s the most thoughtful thing he’s ever received.

He begins to pluck and hum the song he wrote over winter, the one filled with all his longing and pining for Geralt.

“Sing?” Geralt asks in a quiet voice and Dandelion pauses. The lyrics hardly hide his feelings. Quietly he begins to sing. It’s everything he’s been meaning to say to Geralt, begging him to reciprocate his feelings.

Geralt doesn’t say anything when he finishes. Dandelion pushes down the panic – he’s not running away or cursing him out, that’s a good sign. “I wrote it this winter,” he confesses, practically spelling out that the song is about, is for, Geralt.

“It’s lovely.”

Dandelion waits for more but it never comes. There’s nothing more he can say to make it obvious how he feels. Still, Geralt says nothing and their day continues on as normal.

Surely, Geralt must know, he reasons. There’s no way he couldn’t. He even told him he wrote the song over winter while he was gone. It couldn’t be about anyone else. But he never says anything to suggest he feels the same, even if their too long glances and stolen touches would suggest otherwise.

* * *

Dandelion chews on his lip watching the healer work on Geralt. The wound wasn’t deep but his veins were turning black around it and Geralt was out of whatever potion would fix it.

“Is he going to be okay?”

The healer doesn’t look up and continues rubbing salves on the wound and muttering incantations. “He’ll live.”

Dandelion paces the length of the little shop. Geralt had passed out when they arrived and his breathing is loud and laboured.

“How long will it take?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a mage,” the healer snaps.

Dandelion looks at her incredulously, she was definitely chanting in elder. “Then what are you doing?”

The healer sighs, “Not a trained mage. I know a little magic and have some chaos, not enough to be a court mage or anything like that.”

Dandelion licks his lips, “So you know what to do.”

“Clearly,” the healer grits out. Dandelion comes to her side and sees the black lines in Geralt’s skin slowly retreating and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Sorry, I’m just worried.”

The healer relaxes a little and she gives him a small sympathetic smile. “Worry not, he’ll be fine. He’ll wake up in a minute.”

The black disappears and the healer moves away from Geralt to wipe the salve off her fingertips. Dandelion takes a seat at Geralt’s side and takes his hand in his.

“So, you have chaos?” he asks.

The healer hums a yes, organising bottles and potions on her table.

“And you can detect magic?”

“I can.”

“Can you detect curses?”

The healer snaps her head up, “Curses?”

Dandelion swallows, trying to keep his voice casual, “Yeah, could you tell if a person was cursed?”

That’s when Geralt wakes up, “Who’s cursed?” he mutters, still half asleep.

“No one,” Dandelion answers quickly, “Just thought it would be, you know, useful information. For future reference.”

The healer gives him an odd look but shakes her head, “No, I can’t detect curses. I’m not trained for that or powerful enough. Maybe I could, if the consequence of the curse was being enacted, but not any other time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Say if a man was cursed to vomit when he heard a specific word, I might be able to feel the shift in chaos in that moment. But not at any other point.”

Dandelion nods slowly, Anathea’s words echoing in his mind. When would immortality even cause a shift in chaos? Can a child even curse someone?

Geralt sits up still looking dazed, “Why are you so interested in curses all of a sudden?”

“No reason,” Dandelion says innocently and is saved from further questioning by the healer pressing some drink into Geralt’s hand and forcing him to drink it.

* * *

It’s the fourth year in a row that Dandelion has travelled with Geralt. It took a little getting used to camping most nights and dealing with Geralt coming back covered in monster guts. It’s not bad, just different. It feels easy, above all else, it all slots perfectly together and he knows this is what he was born to do.

They managed to snag a room at an inn, the extra coin he had slipped the innkeeper had certainly helped. Now he’s waiting for Geralt to get back from a selkiemore hunt.

He’s almost asleep when the door slams open and Geralt walks in covered in guts.

“Yikes,” Dandelion grimaces as he rubs his eyes and stands up. He had ordered a bath that had long since gone cold but Geralt heats it with ignii and begins to strip off his ruined clothes.

Dandelion can’t help but be drawn to the sight of Geralt’s bare chest. Even covered in monster guts he’s still the most attractive person he’s ever seen. Geralt gets into the bath and Dandelion moves to help him clean.

He feels like he’s disobeying the rules. Friends don’t help each other bathe. Friends don’t wash their friend’s hair. He can’t stop himself, though, every time Geralt comes back from a hunt he helps clean him up. Dandelion likes the excuse that he’s just being helpful when really he revels in each stolen touch of Geralt’s skin.

“Hunt go well?”

“I killed it.”

Dandelion snorts and sets to working on Geralt’s hair. “I figured that much. Difficult?”

“A little.”

When the gore is all gone, he fishes out some of his fancy scented soaps and oils from his bag. The supply is already running low and he dreads the thought of the day he has to use unscented soap.

Dandelion hums and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, wishing it was long enough to braid it. Unfortunately, every few weeks Geralt insists on hacking his curls off.

“Lucky you didn’t get wounded,” he points out noticed that this time Geralt hadn’t come back with any serious injuries. He hates it when he knows his Witcher will be left with a new scar, although there is the added bonus of the excuse to be near him to bandage him up.

Geralt shrugs, “I’m good at what I do,” he says a little smugly and Dandelion bellows a laugh.

“That you are, my friend,” he pats Geralt’s shoulder and reluctantly rises from behind him. “How long have you been doing what you do, anyway? I don’t like to guess your age, I know Witchers age slowly.”

Geralt leaves the bath and Dandelion averts his eyes. “This is my sixth year.”

Dandelion whips his head around and catches a small glimpse of Geralt’s ass before his trousers get pulled fully up. “What? Six years? How old are you?”

Geralt tenses for a moment and pulls on his shirt, “Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Don’t know for sure, we don’t have birthdays.”

“Holy shit,” Dandelion blows out his cheeks, “You’re younger than me.”

He can’t believe he’d never asked when Geralt’s birthday was. He’d just assumed it was in the winter like his own which was why he’d never brought it up. Now he feels guilty for never asking.

“How old are you, then?” Geralt finally sits next to him on the bed.

“Twenty-five. My birthday was in February, the 4th. How come you don’t know your birthday?”

Geralt lies down and Dandelion follows. He wants to reach out and hold him but fiddles with a loose thread in the quilt instead.

“I got taken to Kaer Morhen when I was six. I think. Maybe younger. My tutors didn’t know my birthday and I was too young to remember it. Most Witchers don’t know when their birthdays are.”

Dandelion feels a swell of rage at the tutors of Kaer Morhen for stripping Geralt of his own birthday.

“Well, right,” Dandelion nods and Geralt raises an eyebrow, “That’s decided then. Your birthday from here on out is July 20th.”

“What?” Geralt laughs, half in amusement and half in shock.

Dandelion nods seriously, “That’s your birthday then. I just decided. Tomorrow you will turn twenty-three and we’ll make a day of it.”

Geralt is quiet and Dandelion thinks he might have done something wrong. “Thank you.”

Dandelion smiles softly, “Not a problem. Now, get some sleep Birthday Boy. I already have so many plans.”

Geralt snorts and rolls over, they’re sharing a bed and Dandelion can’t complain when he snuggles into Geralt’s back and steals his warmth.

* * *

Dandelion wakes up early the next morning and slips out of bed while Geralt is still sleeping. He buys a rich and filling breakfast and asks for it to be brought to their room. When he gets back Geralt is already awake.

“Where did you go?”

“Starting off your birthday treats,” Dandelion smiles.

Geralt shakes his head but can’t say anything because a maid comes with their food. They eat a feast of bacon, eggs and toast and then Dandelion is grabbing Geralt’s hand and dragging him out of the inn.

It was a large town, not quite a city yet but close enough. Dandelion is still holding Geralt’s hand as he leads him through the busy streets – he should let go but he can’t bring himself to.

“Where are you taking me?”

Dandelion shoots him a smile and brings him to the town centre where there is a fountain and children playing in the water. He fishes out two coins and hands one to Geralt. “Make a wish.”

Geralt takes the coin and snorts but tosses in the coin and Dandelion does the same. “Don’t tell me what it is you wished for, or it won’t come true.”

Geralt nods faux seriously, “Of course.”

Dandelion is still holding his hand and he moves to let go, it’s no longer justified, but Geralt squeezes his hand tighter. His heart skips a beat and a small smile creeps onto his face.

“Onwards!” he takes Geralt in the direction of the markets. There’s a stall selling weapons and he watches closely as Geralt admires the various blades. “See anything you like?”

Geralt shrugs, “Sure.”

Dandelion catches the way Geralt’s eyes linger on a pair of silver knuckles which have small wolves on each knuckle. He plucks it off the table and barters with for the price while Geralt protests. He ignores him and buys them. “Happy birthday,” he hands them over and Geralt slips them into his pocket.

After that he brings Geralt to a bakery and gets him a strawberry tart.

“You’re spoiling me,” Geralt says taking a bite of the tart and his eyes falling shut for just a second in delight. Dandelion swallows and pushes aside his sinful thoughts.

“You deserve to be spoiled.”

Geralt huffs, “Shush,” he snips but there’s no heat behind it.

* * *

They’re low on coin. They haven’t slept inside in over a month. Geralt is a good hunter and they haven’t gone hungry but they’re hardly eating enough.

He wakes up early and Geralt keeps sleeping. As quiet as he can he grabs as much of his jewellery as he can and his original lute. Thankfully, Geralt doesn’t wake. He mounts Salmon and rides back the way they came to town.

Dandelion is hardly welcomed; the villagers remember him from before and they cast distrustful looks his way. He finds a merchant with a large stall beside a pen that holds three horses. He puts down all his finery on the table in front of him. “This is worth at least three hundred crowns.”

The merchant glares at him and gathers up the jewels and surveys them with a critical eye. “I’ll give you one hundred and fifty.”

Dandelion scoffs, “Are you kidding? I said three hundred as a low figure, they’re more likely to total well over five hundred.”

The merchant shrugs, “That’s all they’re worth to me, boy.”

Dandelion grits his teeth, one hundred and fifty wouldn’t be enough. He knows fighting won’t get him anywhere. He’s not above begging. Not when he’s seen Geralt getting slimmer and slimmer with each missed meal.

“Please. I need at least three hundred.”

“What else can you give me?”

“This is all I have.”

The merchant looks over his shoulder at Salmon and Dandelion feels his stomach drop. “No, please.”

The merchant smiles, “That’s a strong stallion you’ve got there. Throw him in and I’ll give you your three hundred.”

Dandelion shakes his head, “No. Absolutely not. I bred and raised this horse.”

“Fine, take your one hundred and fifty.”

Dandelion bites his lip so hard he draws blood, “Fine,” he swallows. He loves Salmon. He’s the best horse he could ask for. But he has no choice. “Fine.”

The merchant hands him a pouch full of coin and Dandelion pockets it. He turns to Salmon and strokes down his neck, “I’m sorry boy. I’m so sorry.” His eyes fill up with tears and he hugs the horse.

Salmon whinnies and nibbles at his sleeve. Dandelion wipes at his face. He doesn’t even have any treats for him.

He looks at the horses being kept in the pen. They look well off enough.

“You’ll look after him. Give him to someone good?”

“Aye.”

Dandelion nods and turns back to Salmon. “You’re such a good horse, I love you, boy.”

The hardest thing he’s ever had to do is hand over the reins to the merchant. Salmon gets led into the pen and Dandelion can’t look. He walks out of town as fast as he can and lets the tears fall.

The walk back to camp is significantly longer without a horse but it gives him time to cry as much as he wants and let the redness leave his eyes.

Geralt has already packed up camp when he makes it back. The idiot had thought he’d left him.

Riding behind Geralt on Roach is strange. It’s quieter without Salmon and Dandelion wishes he could go back for him. It’s nice being able to hold onto Geralt all day though.

* * *

“I should have asked you to spar sooner,” Geralt pants, sounding as wrecked as Dandelion feels.

“You absolutely should have,” he laughs. He reaches up a hand and pulls Geralt back into a deep kiss. Five years of wanting finally being satiated.

He pulls Geralt back to their bedrolls and they spend the morning learning each dip and curve of each other’s bodies.

* * *

“Do you have to leave?” Dandelion pouts, tracing his fingers lightly over Geralt’s hip. They’re back home in his room and he hadn’t prepared as well as he should have for Geralt to leave again.

“Yes,” Geralt sighs nuzzling his face into the crook of Dandelion’s neck.

“You could stay, just for one year,” he rolls them over so that Geralt is pinned to the mattress underneath him. He plants a kiss on his lips, “Just,” another kiss, “One,” another, “Year?”

Geralt smirks, “No can do.” He rolls them easily so Dandelion is under him, “We’ll just have to make up for the months we won’t see each other now.”

* * *

The alderman is trying to lowball Geralt on a contract and, quite frankly, Dandelion is sick of this bullshit. He knows it’s how often Geralt leaves a contract but Dandelion is sick of it. Too many times has he patched up perilous wounds only to find out that Geralt had been given half the coin promised.

This is a new low. This wasn’t even half. This was less than a quarter.

He has no problem calling out the alderman who sneers at him. Fire burns through his veins. It’s not fair. Geralt does so much for these people and they don’t even thank him. He’s sick of it.

The alderman agrees to a hundred oren. Dandelion is still fuming but Geralt is pushing him out of the shop.

What worse is that Geralt just accepts it all. He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t even fight for more.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Geralt scolds him and Dandelion feels his blood boil. _He_ shouldn’t have done that? More like that alderman.

“What? Get you the money you deserve?”

“It’s not worth it.”

Dandelion snaps. “It is worth it!” He doesn’t understand how Geralt can take it. He wishes that for once, just once, Geralt would fight for what he was worth. “You save their life and for what?”

“It’s the life,” Geralt brushes off.

“It shouldn’t be.” He glares at Geralt. Sure, he can’t change the fact that he’s a Witcher, but he can chose to take the right payment. “You shouldn’t let them. You deserve more than what they give you. Why can’t you see that?”

He loves Geralt with all his heart, the one thing he didn’t love was how at every opportunity Geralt dismissed his value.

“You don’t understand,” Geralt brushes past him and Dandelion doesn’t even know when they made it back to the stables.

“Then tell me,” he begs, refusing to see how in any way how Geralt could be right about this. “Make me understand why you refuse to value yourself and your services.”

Geralt doesn’t reply which angers him even more. He wants to scream at every villager and the Witcher himself until they all finally understood how good he was. Geralt starts to bandage his arm and Dandelion deflates and takes the bandage to wrap it for him.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says quietly and Dandelion drops his shoulders.

“It’s not your fault.” It’s not. It’s the fault of everyone who made him believe this is what he deserved.

* * *

Dandelion has decided he hates when Geralt leaves on a hunt. He knows he’s perfectly capable of handling himself but his stomach still rolls with worry. He pours his nervous energy into writing songs and performing if he can work himself up to do so.

He’s performed more times than he can count now, Geralt forces him to. It doesn’t stop the coil of anxiety each time he steps up on stage.

He’s not performing tonight. He’s hunched over his lute and notebook writing a song about how much he loves Geralt. How unreasonable it is that he’s fallen so deeply in love. A song Dandelion makes sure he only ever works on when Geralt is on a hunt. He wants it to be perfect before he sings it.

* * *

“At Kaer Morhen they shave the boy’s heads.” Geralt tells him about how the boys are forcibly shaved. He begins to understand why Geralt cuts his hair so frequently and why he has always been so enamoured with his long hair.

Dandelion has a lot to say to the tutors of Kaer Morhen if they ever cross his path. First, the whole not having birthdays thing and now this? Yeah, he’ll give them a piece of his mind if he ever meets them.

The words threaten to spill from his tongue but that’s not what Geralt needs right now.

“I think you’ll look lovely with long hair,” he says instead because it’s true. When Geralt has let his hair grow a little longer like now and it begins to curl it looks devilishly handsome. The curls aren’t threatening but it suits him. He can picture him with longer hair and decides it suits. He hopes that Geralt will let it grow.

* * *

He tries to compose but his fingers keep hitting the wrong notes and he sets aside his lute. Dandelion can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Sure, he always worries when Geralt is on a hunt but tonight’s different.

Pacing around the tiny room they’re staying in for the night does nothing to assuage his concerns. He gives up and grabs his sword and attaches it to his belt and finds himself storming off into the night.

The alderman had said the drowners were out west and he hopes he can find Geralt easily enough. The further he gets into the forest the more anxiety curls in his gut. He’s certain he’s going to find Geralt’s body dead and in pieces.

What he finds is much worse.

He can’t see Geralt but he can just make out the rather large pack of drowners circling around something. Dandelion’s fears are confirmed, it’s way more drowners than the alderman had said and he’s not about to watch Geralt die.

Geralt appears from behind a boulder and starts fighting and that’s all Dandelion needs to start himself. He hasn’t fought anyone, or anything, in years. Not properly. His sword gets stuck in the skull of the first drowner and he only just manages to pull it out in time to stab the second that’s noticed him.

Adrenaline fills his body and he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He swings without thinking hoping his muscle memory will be enough to get him through. The drowners smell horrible, of stagnant rot and decay, it’s ruining his favourite doublet.

Before he even realises the fight is over and Geralt is patting him down for injuries. “I’m fine, none of the blood’s mine,” he assures.

Geralt gives him hell for the rest of the night but he doesn’t care. He’d rather die helping Geralt on a hunt than have to find and bury his body.

* * *

The song he writes about Geralt fighting the drowners is a hit. Of course, he changes the story somewhat. It’s a knight who saves a young maiden, the original lyrics naming Geralt hadn’t gone down all that well – people didn’t want to hear the praises of Witchers.

Dandelion finds himself sneaking after Geralt on more than one hunt. For the song inspiration, of course, not because he’s worried.

“You need to stop doing that,” Geralt sighs exasperatedly as they both clean blood off their swords.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Helping. I have it under control.”

Dandelion narrows his eyes, “If by under control you mean dead any second, then yeah.”

Geralt laughs and throws a rag at Dandelion’s face, “If you think I’m about to die then you should run far away.”

Dandelion grabs the rag and throws it back but Geralt easily catches it, “I thought I already told you I’m never running away.”

* * *

Dandelion looks up at the light filtering in through the trees. The leaves are blurring together as his eyes lose focus. He can’t hear Geralt fighting the monster just a few feet away from him. The ringing in his ears and the hot flushes of blood he can feel coursing through his body are blocking it out.

He doesn’t know where he’s hurt.

All he knows is that one second they had been walking through the forest to make camp and the second he was being ripped from the ground. A pain unlike any other hitting his chest, his stomach, his legs. He hears the sharp twang of his lute strings snapping in half as his instrument falls off his back and crashes several feet to the ground and splinters in half.

He had been thrown to the floor. He saw a flash of white hair and gleaming silver.

Now he sees the sun.

He doesn’t feel the pain. He feels the breath of warmth kissing his cheeks as the sun gives him her last farewell.

Something obscures the sky and it takes him a moment to realise it’s Geralt and he’s yelling but Dandelion can’t hear him.

He thinks Geralt’s crying. His upper body is lifted up and he’s being held tightly in Geralt’s arms.

When Geralt presses his hand against the wound on Dandelion’s stomach the pain shoots him back into awareness. He groans at the sudden pain, his eyes white out and suddenly refocus. He can see his body all mangled before him. His left leg bent at a sickly angle, his right seems to be missing half his calf. His yellow doublet is quickly staining red from the gaping hole in his stomach and the pierce in his collar bone.

“Geralt,” he mutters weakly.

“Dandelion,” Geralt sobs pressing harder. “It’s going to be okay. We just have to get to Roach and to the next town.” He attempts to lift him but Dandelion screams at the pain and they stop.

Dandelion is breathing heavily. He looks up at Geralt and presses his hand to the Witchers face. “I’m going to die, my love,” he says calmly wiping the hot tears from Geralt’s face. He hates that he’s the reason he’s crying.

“No,” Geralt swallows thickly, rocking Dandelion back and forth. “No. Fuck that. You’re not going to die. I need you.”

Dandelion manages a weak smile. “Don’t be silly. You don’t need anyone. You’re my strong Witcher, always keeping me out of trouble.”

He tugs at Geralt’s face with as much strength as he can, which isn’t a lot. He pulls him down for a kiss, there’s blood on his face that mixes with Geralt’s salty tears.

“I can’t lose you.”

“I’ll always be with you,” he reassures the man holding him, he moves his hand over Geralt’s heart.

His hand falls down to his chest. All of his strength is gone and he struggles to take in each breath. His gaze unwillingly floats from Geralt’s distraught face back up to the tree tops. The leaves are blurring together more and more by the second. He can’t hear anything anymore.

Strangely, he thinks of being a boy and of Anathea. He thinks of the fear he had lived within the back of his mind. His final thought is that this is the most ironic way to find out he wasn’t cursed with immortality after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if you enjoyed, my tumblr is @pansexualbuchanan if you're interested <3


	4. make a wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a lil less angsty than the last two
> 
> for this picture joey in the bathtub photoshoot but mildly less buff, hope you enjoy!

It’s been two years since he lost Dandelion.

Geralt rarely speaks to anyone beyond a contract and avoids towns. He can’t be around other people when they make him realise how lonely he is now. He doesn’t even go to Kaer Morhen.

His hair has grown but it’s unnoticeable with the way it’s matted together and sticks to his head. He doesn’t have Dandelion to untangle the knots and he doesn’t care enough to cut it anymore.

Geralt’s only company is Roach, the last thing he has left of Dandelion. He’ll talk to her as if she can talk back as he has always done, but its quieter now without Dandelion teasing him for it. Roach is getting old. Her coat is going grey in places, she’s slower and at night he can hear her lungs struggling. Geralt knows he should do the right thing but he can’t bring himself to let her go. Not when she’s all he has.

She makes it another two months.

Travelling by foot is another difficulty but Geralt still can’t go into towns. He can’t stay long enough to find a breeder because then he’ll hear a bard singing. Then he’ll see people laughing and walking together. It’s too much.

As luck has it, he happens across a breeder herding horses down the road between towns.

Geralt spots a horse that looks almost identical to Roach. The same brown hair, although this horse is a little taller and the white stripe down its nose is a different shape.

“How much?”

The herder stares at him. For the first time in years, Geralt almost shrinks back from his gaze. There’s only a small amount of fear coming from the man, instead, he smells overwhelmingly of pity.

“50 ducat.”

Geralt is surprised by the price, usually he gets charged double and this is clearly less than what any one of these horses are worth.

He hands over the money, his last, and walks away with a new horse.

“What should I call you?” he asks his new horse at camp that night as he brushes her down.

The horse only huffs some air and turns her head to him to sniff for treats. Then he remembers what Dandelion had said to him all those years ago; _maybe you should name them in the future. See if you can come up with a name better than Roach._ He can’t think of a better name now.

Roach had been a good horse. Geralt looks at the new horse that looks so much like her. If he had to lose Dandelion then he doesn’t have to lose Roach too.

“Roach?” he tests.

Roach Two huffs and butts her head into his chest again. Geralt can almost pretend she didn’t die. That night catches sight of his reflection in a lake, he looks exactly like what you'd expect from a person who has lived outside for two years. He bathes in a river to get all the grime and old gore off him and he cuts his hair again. He hates the feeling of his hair short against his head again but he feels like himself for the first time in months. The darkness ever so slowly lifting.

* * *

Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen just before the snow falls. Eskel’s eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees Geralt bring Roach into the stables. It’s still light out and a couple of others are still sparring in the courtyard.

“Geralt!” Eskel yells, abandoning his sparring partner and jogging over.

Geralt nods in greeting and sets about taking off Roach’s saddlebags.

“We thought you were dead. No one’s seen you in years.”

He still says nothing. Eskel folds his arms and leans against the pen. “Where have you been?”

“Don’t know. Everywhere,” Geralt shrugs.

Eskel narrows his eyes, “That’s not an answer. At the very least we thought you’d be at Dandelion’s for the winter-”

“He’s dead,” Geralt cuts him off.

Eskel shuts his mouth so hard Geralt hears his teeth hit together. The look of dawning realisation and pity is enough to make Geralt want the earth to swallow him whole.

“Geralt, I’m so sorry-”

“I don’t need your pity,” Geralt snaps, “It is what is. People die.” He feels sick.

Eskel has a look on his face that he can’t determine, “Right. Dinner’s in a few minutes. I’ll see you in there.”

Geralt doesn’t reply just brushes Roach down until he hears Eskel’s fading steps and he’s left alone. He lets out a shuddering breath and rests his forehead against Roach. He can’t think about Dandelion. Not now. Not ever.

When he walks into the hall, he spots Eskel talking lowly with Lambert. He can already guess what about. Lambert frowns and glances over at him with sad, pitying eyes. Geralt clenches his teeth and his fist and sits opposite them.

“Hey, fancy seeing you here. Hope you’ve not forgot out bet, I’m gonna trounce you in sparring tomorrow,” Lambert greets him with a smile, but his voice is tight and his eyes are watching Geralt like he’s a trapped animal ready to attack. Maybe he is. That’s what he feels like.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he assures, piling food onto his plate and eating his fill. He hasn’t had a proper meal in years. By the end of dinner his stomach hurts from how full he is.

* * *

Geralt walks through the main street of the Sarda, holding Roach by the reins as he leads her further into the busy town. He has been riding her all morning and now that an inn was in reach, he decided to give the poor girl a break and dismount her.

Usually, he doesn’t come this far south but the north had been lacking in contracts lately. He slows his pace at the stares he is receiving as he walks, the south was always less welcome to his kind. The children that had been playing in the mud in front of him are now clutched far out of reach, tight in their mothers’ arms. A kikimora is plaguing this town and he won’t leave until he has got his coin; he isn’t unused to the terrified looks he receives any more.

He is stopped in his tracks by a small boy.

He barely reaches taller than Geralt’s knee. His feet are bare and his clothes clearly old hand-me-downs. A floppy mess of brown hair covers the boys head. He runs towards Geralt unaware or uncaring of the tense stares he is receiving from all the adults and now in turn the children.

In his hand, the small boy clutches a dandelion, half the seeds fly off in the breeze as he runs towards him but half of the sphere of soft white fluff remains. The boy looks up at him and holds the flower outstretched to the Witcher.

Geralt feels his chest seize as he meets the bright blue eyes of the child. They look practically identical to—

He looks at the Dandelion clutched in his hand.

No-

“Buttercup!”

He raises his eyes and sees a young woman standing a fair way down the road. Probably the boy’s mother and, although he can smell the fear rolling off her in waves, she won’t step any closer to a man like him.

The boy looks back at his mother briefly and then back up at Geralt and moves the dandelion more insistently at him. This little boy is the only one he can’t smell fear on.

Geralt kneels so he is at eye level with the boy. Buttercup.

"Hello," he says lowly so only the boy can hear.

He both hears the sudden fearful gasps and feels the tension of the townspeople who stand all around them. They hover in the doorways of the buildings. All of them apprehensive of the violence he will show this child – yet none of them brave enough to interfere.

“Make a wish.”

Geralt can’t help but quirk a small smile at the boy and gently takes the flower from him. This boy who for a reason he doesn’t quite know reminds him so much of _his_ Dandelion.

“What would you recommend?”

Buttercup chews the inside of his cheeks. “Something good,” he settles on with a triumphant smile.

“Hmm.”

Geralt blows the seeds from the stem. The white propellers catch in the wind and dance and float around them for a moment before they are sucked away. Buttercup laughs in delight and a few seeds get caught in his hair.

He stands to his feet and he feels the adults who had watched the whole interaction relax somewhat. He takes Roach’s reigns once more.

“Buttercup!” The boy’s mother calls for him again.

The child looks at his mother and his shoulders sag. He looks up at Geralt and then runs back to his mother’s arms who holds him tight to her.

Geralt once again begins to move through the town towards the inn. The citizens don’t move; they just watch him with hatred in their gaze all the while. As he walks past Buttercup and his mother the young boy waves at him and he nods at him. Geralt notices the way his mother’s arms tighten around the boy and turn him away.

He can’t shake the image of the boy’s eyes. The familiarity of him. Briefly, he wonders the possibility that this boy might be the child of his once lover. Certainly, Dandelion had bedded women before he met him. However, upon some consideration of the years passed, Buttercup was much too young to have been Dandelion’s son.

Geralt decides destiny was playing a cruel trick on him by throwing constant reminders of what he had lost at him. Or perhaps, he was just looking for the comfort he knew he would never find again in any blue eyes he saw.

He pushes the thoughts of the boy and his love to the side. He passes Roach to a stable boy and enters the inn to more tense glares. He pushes them aside too. He is here to kill the kikimora, not make friends.

* * *

It’s been ten years.

Geralt glares at the glass of whiskey as if it was the source of all his troubles. Ten years to the day and yet he can still remember blood staining Dandelion’s doublet. Can remember the sickening crunch as his body hit the floor.

He’s wasting the last of his coin on alcohol. The barkeep has already poured him most of the bottle but he’s nowhere near as drunk as he needs to be. Shame he didn’t have any of the alcohol they kept at Kaer Morhen – so alcoholic it was poisonous to humans.

That was what everything about a Witcher’s life was to humans. Poisonous.

If he’d just listened to his tutors then he could have avoided Dandelion’s death. He should have followed the Path and never for one moment let himself believe he could do anything else. A Witcher is doomed to destroy, that’s why they have to keep moving.

“Another,” he slams down his empty glass.

“Are you sure?” the barkeep looks at him warily, but a sharp glare is enough to spur him into refilling the glass. “That’s the last of it.”

Geralt sighs and gulps down the whiskey. He leaves his coins on the table and collects his swords. The cold air that hits his face makes his head spin. He squeezes his eyes shut to dispel the motion sickness and staggers into the forest. It’s nearly midnight and the grave hag he’s hunting tonight will be making her presence known soon.

At the end of the night, he lies on the forest floor with a gaping wound in his stomach. He watches the stars pass above and hopes that maybe this will be it.

It isn’t, the wound heals enough to walk by the morning. The ashes he brings as proof of kill aren’t accepted and he leaves the town empty handed. Geralt continues on the Path hoping that each job will be his last.

* * *

As the years go by he finds himself further south. Geralt tells himself it’s because of the lack of contracts in the north but really it’s because everywhere up there has a memory of Dandelion with it.

He’s dangerously close to the territory of the other Witcher schools but he stays close enough to the borders of the northern kingdoms that it hasn’t been a problem yet.

Geralt is nearly at Geso, at which point he knows he will be deep in southern territory and need to turn back. The valleys on the way have had a healthy amount of contracts, mountains always seemed to attract monsters. He reckons the town he is about to enter will need his help.

It takes him a moment to realise this is not the first time he has been in this town.

The shops that line the main street have changed in the past decades and it looks considerably dustier. But he knows he has been here before when he reaches a patch of dandelions on the side of the road. A flash of a memory of a young boy running up to him crosses his mind. The angry and scared looks of the onlookers. He hopes they’ve become more receptive to Witchers in the time he’s been gone – but he doubts it.

He finds a tavern. Not the same as last time but this one has stables for Roach and that’s good enough for him.

The food is mediocre but this backwater town clearly doesn’t have enough trade for any type of luxury. Geralt is surprised there’s even a bard playing; in the time he’s been performing he’s been tossed two meagre coins. Geralt tries not to pay too much attention to bards nowadays, but even he recognises the touch too familiar tone of his voice.

He looks more closely at him. A lute in his hands that’s not nearly as expensive as the one Dandelion had carried but worth more than most things in this town.

Geralt doesn’t recognise him at first. Why should he when he had seen him die some twenty years ago? This man didn’t wear brightly coloured silks or a silly hat with slicked-back hair and a beard like his Dandelion did.

This thing that wears Dandelion’s face is dressed wrong.

It has a loose-fitting cheap cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves, loose green trousers kept up by suspenders and only a light covering of stubble. His eyes are the same bright dazzling blue and his hair is the right colour but it is allowed to flop over his forehead freely.

Whatever is attempting to disguise itself as Dandelion is doing a poor job of it.

It performs like him though. The same gusto and confidence that he always had on stage. Its hands strumming a lute with unmatched precision and hitting notes that ring through the tavern. The patrons all watch happily and tap their feet or fingers in time with the beat of the love ballad currently being played.

Geralt can’t see any weapons on it. That was its first mistake.

When the impersonator is done performing and steps outside the tavern for some air Geralt follows it silently. When they are outside, he suddenly pounces and pushes it against the wall with a silver dagger to his neck.

“What are you?”

“W-what?”

Geralt’s medallion hums against his chest and he growls at the creature that is wearing his dead lovers face.

“What. Are. You.”

“A bard! What do you mean? If I slept with your daughter, I’m sorry!”

Geralt presses his dagger further into his skin, “You’re wearing a dead man’s face.”

The creature which looks like Dandelion drops his mouth open like a gaping fish, “Excuse you! I keep my face looking very nice if I do say so myself.”

“Stop lying. You’re a doppler, aren’t you.”

It squints, “A what?”

“A shape shifter.”

Its eyes bulge wider with indignation, “No, I’m human thank you very much.”

Geralt snarls and pushes his blade into its neck further drawing a small line of blood. Although, its skin doesn’t seem to be burning at the contact and it makes Geralt pause.

The Not-Dandelion keeps rambling, “Look. I don’t know who you are, good sir, but I’m sorry if I offended you. I can assure you I’m quite human. My name’s Buttercup, and I’ve grown up here for the past twenty years. Ask anyone!”

Geralt looks into Buttercup’s eyes, searching.

There is no difference between his and Dandelion’s. They have the same darker rim of blue around the irises. But he also remembers being shocked by the eyes of a young boy when he was last in this town and wondering if he was his lover’s son. Was this the same boy grown up?

He can’t remember that boys name but he doesn’t need to. He pulls his blade away from his neck and Buttercup gulps heavily.

“Look, you’re a Witcher, right?”

Geralt stiffens but stays silent.

“I know because one came here when I was a child. Can’t you smell if I’m human? Or is that just a rumour? We don’t get a lot of people round here-“

Geralt stops listening to the ramblings of the bard and takes a moment to scent him. He was right – he does smell human. There is no cloying smell of a doppler. There is no smell of fear. Nothing to indicate this man is anything but what he said he was, apart from his appearance and the soft barely there hum of Geralt’s medallion.

He drops his blade entirely and steps back. Buttercup lets out a small sigh of relief and the stiffness of his body softens. He seems surprisingly casual considering Geralt had almost killed him.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt speaks quietly, trying to cope with coming face to face with a man who’s been dead for twenty years. “You look like someone I used to know.”

Buttercup seems to relax at that and his features soften as he looks at Geralt with pity. “They must have been important to you if that’s your reaction.” There’s no malice in his voice and Geralt looks up to meet his eyes and sees the understanding in them.

“Yes. Very.”

Buttercup is silent as he regards him. “Can I buy you a drink? You look like you need it,” he laughs lightly.

Geralt ignores the pain in his chest and nods. The more he looks at Buttercup the more he can see the difference between him and Dandelion. He is slimmer built with less fat, the result of growing up in a village as opposed to court. He isn’t as arrogant, either. At least so far as Geralt can tell - again, the humbling situation of growing up poor.

He nods his consent and follows Buttercup back into the bar. “I’ll get it. I have more coin than you. And I’m getting paid soon.”

Buttercup doesn’t protest and sits next to him at a table at the back of the tavern sipping their ales. It doesn’t take long for Buttercup to talk up a storm. The blessed silence gone as the bard asks him question after question about being a Witcher, the monsters he’s slain, the places he’s travelled to.

Geralt didn’t realise how much he had missed having someone like this around. He pushes his thoughts of Dandelion out of his mind. He focusses on Buttercup and the way he hangs off Geralt’s every word and laughs loudly at his dry humour.

The loneliness that had settled into his bones seems to slip out of his body. He had missed having company. Buttercup is telling him some story about stealing some carrots from the farmer the next town over. A laugh bubbles out of Geralt’s chest without his permission; he thinks that perhaps Destiny wasn’t such a bitch after all. Destiny has sent him someone to fill the hole in his heart – and if his type is blue-eyed bards then no one needs to know.

* * *

The next morning, he heads to the stables to collect Roach to leave with a coin purse heavy in his pocket. When he gets there Buttercup is sat on a haystack lightly strumming his lute.

“What are you doing here?”

Buttercup jumps up with a wide smile, “There you are! I’ve been waiting here for ages.”

Geralt hums and loads up Roach, “And why?”

“Well, you see, I figured I’d come with you on your adventures,” Buttercup smiles.

Geralt swallows, all too familiar with how that situation ends. “No, absolutely not.”

Buttercup deflates, “Why not? Am I not a suitable travelling companion?”

“I’m sure you are,” Geralt sighs, hating the sad look on Buttercup’s face, “But it’s too dangerous. Trust me. You’ll get killed.”

Buttercup rolls his eyes, “Well, chum, it’s not your decision whether or not I risk my own life.”

Geralt opens and shuts his mouth a few times, “Yes, it is.”

Buttercup laughs, “Nope. If I want to face potential dangers and unknown terrors then it’s my choice.”

Geralt mounts Roach, “Very well, but you can’t do it with me.” He lightly kicks her flank and she trots forward. Buttercup quickly following behind. “I said no.”

Buttercup shrugs, “I’m just going in the same direction,” he grins as he follows Geralt out of town.

“You won’t be able to keep up with my horse.”

“I’m a fast runner.”

* * *

Geralt sets up camp while Buttercup strums his lute. His heart hurts at the sound and the memories it brings to the surface, but it also eases him, like he’s found something he was missing.

He knows he should send Buttercup back home in the morning. They’re still close enough to Sarda that he’d make it home by sunset. The selfish part of him wants him to stay. Geralt hasn’t had a proper conversation with somebody since Dandelion and having Buttercup around is already making him feel like himself.

They go to bed soon after eating but Geralt can’t sleep. Buttercup reminds him so much of Dandelion in the way he talks and holds himself. And at the same time, he realises that the pain he has been holding onto isn’t so grand anymore.

Geralt thinks that might be a betrayal to Dandelion. He was the love of his life, he shouldn’t ever be getting over his death. And yet, here he is, suddenly aware that his heart no longer hurts like it once did. That over the course of twenty years the pain that was once so raw is now something he can cope with.

Guilt stirs in his stomach. Both for the fact that Dandelion deserves more than him moving on this easily, and the fact that Buttercup is already thawing the ice in his chest.

* * *

He doesn’t send Buttercup home in the morning. Geralt even lets him ride on Roach behind him. Although Buttercup sits with his back to Geralt so he can play his lute as they ride.

Geralt doesn’t send him away the next day, either, or the day after. All too quickly Buttercup becomes a permanent fixture in his life. Geralt knows he’s selfish but he can’t stop himself.

* * *

Geralt comes back from a hunt clutching his side and stumbles into camp. Buttercup is instantly at his side and guiding him to sit down on a log.

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

His eyes are still black and his skin ghostly pale but Buttercup pays that no mind. He moves Geralt’s hand away from the wound and sucks in a sharp breath.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt, what the fuck happened?” Buttercup looks at him with wide eyes and rips the shirt open to see the wound. He grabs a clean scrap of cloth and attempts to wipe the blood away.

“Got bit,” Geralt shrugs, grunting when the movement pulls at his side. He sucks in a breath at Buttercup’s feather-light touches on his side.

Buttercup treats and wraps the wound and moves Geralt to sit on his bedroll. His eyes are slowly fading back to normal and he catches the panicked look in Buttercup’s eye. “I’ll be alright,” he reassures as softly and honestly as he can.

“Okay,” Buttercup nods, but he doesn’t look calm. He places his hand on Geralt’s cheek and he selfishly leans into the touch. “I was so worried.”

Geralt reaches for Buttercup’s hand and squeezes it lightly, “I promise I’ll be fine.”

Buttercup nods, wets his lips, and leans forward to kiss him.

Geralt can’t resist the soft touch and deepens the kiss, pulling Buttercup closer to him. He shifts easily so he sits in his lap and Geralt snakes his arms tightly around his waist. This is selfish, too selfish, Geralt thinks, but then again, he always has been.

* * *

“Stop fidgeting,” Geralt doesn’t even bother cracking open an eye.

He has been listening to Buttercup shuffle and fidget and huff for the last half an hour.

“I’m bored,” Buttercup whines. The road to the nearest town is a long and rocky one. Geralt wants to take frequent breaks because he is leading Roach by foot to stop her from breaking a leg.

“Play your lute,” Geralt finally opens his eyes and sees Buttercup lying on his bedroll with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead looking dramatically pathetic.

“I do that all the time,” Buttercup sulks.

Geralt rolls his eyes fondly. He’s struck by how different Buttercup and Dandelion are. While Dandelion had a penchant for the dramatic, he was always able to keep his emotions in check – most likely due to his strict noble upbringing. Whereas Buttercup had clearly never known discipline and saw no reason to not keep a running monologue on all his thoughts and emotions.

He runs his eyes over Buttercups body. The loose shirt and pants he always wears billow softly in the wind. He has a similar build to Dandelion, Geralt notices. He had ruled out Buttercup being Dandelion’s son despite having very similar features due to his age. But they could be related, he thinks, maybe the descendant of one of Igor’s bastards. Dandelion said his uncle had many illegitimate children that he never met, maybe Buttercup could be one of their children.

He tries not to think about what Dandelion would say about Geralt falling in love with one of his distant cousins.

“Want to learn how to fight with a sword?”

“What!?” Buttercup sits up, his mouth agape with shock and confusion.

Geralt shrugs sheepishly, “You want something to do.”

Buttercup squints his eyes at Geralt looking like he’s waiting for him to reveal it’s a joke. “Do you think I’ll be any good at it?”

Geralt remembers the clash of swords against Dandelion and his surprising skill. Buttercup could have the same prowess one day – he’s not as muscular but with a little training Geralt is sure he could make a decent swordsman.

“You’ll do better than you think.”

They stand and Geralt hands Buttercup his steel sword while Geralt takes his silver sword.

“Live steel?” Buttercup asks with worry in his voice as he twirls the handle of the sword. “Is that safe? I’ve never used one before.”

“Exactly. You can’t hurt me and I won’t hurt you.”

Geralt first teaches Buttercup how to hold a proper stance. Which was more difficult than he was expecting because Buttercup has a lot of trouble just holding still and staying in position. If Geralt put his hands on the mans shoulders to angle them correctly then his feet would slip out of place.

He gives up after a while, glad that he had never been a trainer at Kaer Morhen. At least Buttercup would never be in a sword fight where his life would be at stake.

“Let’s just try some easy moves.”

Buttercup perks up at that, instantly moving out of the half correct stance he had managed to hold. Geralt sighs and says nothing.

“When I come at you I want you to try and block me.”

Buttercup nods and tightens his grip on his sword handle. Geralt moves slowly and obviously as he brings his sword down in a long arch. Buttercup easily blocks the attack. Geralt swings his sword at Buttercup from a range of different angles, slowly picking up the pace. Buttercup manages to counter them all.

Geralt swings fast and brings his sword from the right towards Buttercups side. Buttercup swiftly moves his sword left to stop Geralt’s and push it away from his body. Then, he quickly moves his sword back to the right and swings at Geralt’s open side. It’s not hard enough to cut but the blade digs through Geralt’s shirt and presses into his ribs.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow, even Buttercup looks surprised by his actions.

“Want to move on to attack?”

Buttercup nods slowly.

Geralt shows him a few basic moves and has Buttercup copy them. He picks it up quickly. His moves are slower, he doesn’t have enough muscles to wield Geralt’s heavy sword as precisely as the Witcher but they’re still strong.

When he’s sure Buttercup is ready they begin to spar properly. The sun is setting and the dusky lighting makes Buttercup’s blue eyes catch the light beautifully which Geralt struggles not to be distracted by.

Buttercup blocks most of Geralt’s swings but a few get through. When Geralt’s sword taps lightly against him and Geralt says, “Dead,” and Buttercup’s jaw tightens. He fights faster and harder after each strike to his body. He manages to land a few blows on Geralt’s legs, arms and sides.

Geralt swipes from the left and Buttercup meets his blow with his own. He twists his wrist and loops his own sword around Geralt. Geralt’s sword goes flying out of his hand and lands with a thud in the grass a few feet away from them.

Geralt had not taught him that trick.

It was a trick Dandelion had known.

“Very impressive.”

“Thanks,” Buttercup whispers. He eyes the sword lying on the ground with confusion in his eyes. “That must’ve been a fluke. Beginners luck.”

Geralt nods, “Probably.”

Buttercup hands his sword back, “Thanks, Geralt.”

They make dinner in relative silence. Buttercup is back to plucking softly at his lute no longer bored and restless. Geralt sharpens his swords and his mind keeps running over the images of their sword fight. When Buttercup had gotten used to the sword he had fought so much like Dandelion had – Geralt didn’t know how that was possible, Buttercup had had no training.

It didn’t make sense.

* * *

Geralt has his arm around Buttercup’s waist as they sit in the back of a tavern watching the town celebrate the slaying of the monster that had plagued their town for years. Buttercup is bouncing his leg waiting for the crowd to settle a little before he starts to play but they show no signs of slowing.

“Another drink?” Buttercup asks him

Geralt shrugs, “If you can get through the crowd.”

At least thirty people were packed into the space between them and the bar and Buttercup sighs and slumps against his side. Geralt can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face as Buttercup tucks his head into his neck.

“This is awful,” he gripes.

Geralt snorts, “I thought I was the one who didn’t like crowds.”

Buttercup scrunches up his nose and Geralt wants to kiss him but he doesn’t want to disrupt their position. “I like crowds when I’m performing, not like this.”

In front of them, a man lifts a young boy up onto his shoulders and they laugh with their family. Geralt can’t help but watch them. He never had a family, even before he was taken to Kaer Morhen it was just him and his mother. It hadn’t ever been something he had considered to be missing, he’d never had it to begin with to lose. Now looking at all the happy families that surround them he longs for a life he can never have.

“How come you don’t like crowds?” 

“I’ve never been part of the crowd,” Buttercup chews on his lip, shifting so he can look at Geralt, “Always on the outskirts. That’s an orphan’s lot, I suppose. Looking at the crowd and not belonging to anybody in it.”

Geralt can’t stand the dejected look in Buttercup’s eyes and the way he folds in on himself. “I’ve never had a family either.”

Buttercup turns and presses a slow kiss to his lips, “We’ll make our own family then,” he whispers, a glint returning to his eyes.

Geralt ducks his head and hums.

Buttercup hooks his fingers under his chin and turns his head back to look at him. “Why do you always do that? Look away when I say I love you or things like that?” Geralt thinks Buttercup can see all the way into his soul the way his eyes are burning into him.

“A Witcher doesn’t deserve any of that. I don’t,” he says quietly, the din of the crowd nearly drowning out the sound of his voice.

“You deserve love, Geralt,” Buttercup holds his gaze with conviction until he finds himself nodding.

He leans forward and kisses Buttercup. A family. Something Geralt never thought he would get, but perhaps Buttercup was right. “Only if it’s with you.”

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah geralt is super dumb and he does not realise that buttercup and dandelion are the same person yet
> 
> thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far ily all. Come find me on tumblr @pansexualbuchanan <3


	5. you're an idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this definitely doesnt match up to Witcher monster lore but oh well
> 
> hope you enjoy!

“Aren’t you the cutest thing.”

“Buttercup, what the fuck are you doing?”

Buttercup looks at him innocently, hand still on the top of the black cat’s head, “Appreciating the finer things in life.”

“That’s a black cat.”

Buttercup rolls his eyes, “No shit, Geralt, I do have eyes.”

“It’s unlucky. It’s dangerous. Leave it alone.”

The cat purrs and nudges its hand into Buttercup’s. Buttercup scoops the cat up into his arms.

“Don’t be so rude. It’s a sweetie.”

Geralt’s fingers are itching to grab his sword. Cats already hate Witchers, a black cat on a Witcher’s Path was just another pile of shit he didn’t need.

“You can’t keep it.”

Buttercup looks up at Geralt with wide eyes. “Please,” he begs, “I’ll use my own coin to look after it.”

Geralt sighs, “It’s a cat. It’s not a dog, you can’t put it on a lead and keep it with you.”

Buttercup frowns and pets the cat absently. Reluctantly he puts the cat back on the ground. The cat meows angrily and winds itself between Buttercups legs. “Go on, shoo,” Buttercup mutters and nudges at the cat softly with the side of his foot.

When he walks away with Geralt to go back to the inn they were staying in the cat follows. Buttercup tries to chase it away several times but the cat keeps following. Geralt steps threateningly towards the cat. It hisses lightly in response and steps closer to Buttercup.

“Fine. Keep it as long as it follows you,” Geralt relents. He hopes the cat is territorial and won’t leave the village when they do.

When they do leave the next day, the cat follows them. Buttercup names it Midnight. It follows them for the next week and a half.

Geralt won’t admit that he’s jealous of the attention Buttercup shows the cat. Instead of being on the receiving end of the man’s affections he now watches at the cat is showered in affection. He even writes a song for the cat. Which is fine. He’s not bitter.

They eventually reach a village with a small drowner problem. When Geralt comes back injured Buttercup drags him to the local healer. It’s an old lady with seven cats. Eight by the time they leave because Midnight seems to enjoy the company of the other cats and doesn’t follow Buttercup anymore.

Buttercup is sad and bitter for the next day. Geralt hates to see him sad but is secretly pleased at the turn of events because it means he gets all of the bards attention again.

* * *

Geralt thumbs through the small poetry book he bought at the market. He doesn’t understand half of the flowery language written on its pages but he knows Buttercup will love it. He was always reciting poetry.

He finds his way back to the tavern and Buttercup is already performing for the lunchtime crowd. Geralt finds a seat and Buttercup sends a charming smile his way that has his heart fluttering.

_Drowning_

_You make my heart beat like the rain_

_Surround me_

_Hold me deep beneath your weight_

_And every night_

_My mind is running around him_

_Thunders getting louder and louder_

_Baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle_

_I can’t let you go now that I got it_

_And all I need it to be struck_

_By your electric love_

Geralt settles into his seat letting Buttercup’s smooth voice wash over him. He had written the song a few weeks ago when he had told the bard that sorcerers really could collect lighting in a bottle. After that he had spent three solid days composing the song, saying he found a new honesty in the old phrase. So he was pretty sure he would appreciate the poetry book.

Buttercup’s birthday is coming up for the height of summer. Geralt has no way of knowing if he will be able to buy him a gift at the time so this was an early present.

After the set is finished, Buttercup joins him and Geralt resists giving the book straight away. He waits until they’ve retired to their room for the night because he’s fairly certain he will be well rewarded for such a gift.

“I’ve got you an birthday gift,” Geralt says, eager to hand over the book.

Buttercup practically bounces on the bed, “Gimme.”

Geralt chuckles and hands over the book. Buttercup takes the book and flicks through the pages. Except he isn’t smiling, his eyebrows are furrowed and he’s chewing on his lip.

“Is it not good?” Geralt asks anxiously. He didn’t know anything about poetry, maybe he’d gotten a horrible set of them.

“No, no, it’s good,” Buttercup says distantly, his eyes still fixated on the little book.

“Then what’s wrong? I can return it,” he tries to take the book back but Buttercup holds it close to his chest.

Buttercup blushes, “Um, see, the thing is. I err, well, can’t really read?”

Geralt is silent, looking from Buttercup to the book and back again. That didn’t make any sense. Buttercup spent all his time reciting poetry and songs and being overdramatic in a way that would rival any of the great poets.

“What do you mean?”

Buttercup stand up still holding the book to his chest, “I mean I can’t read, Geralt. Or write.”

“But you love poetry, and you write down your songs,” Geralt argues. He was fairly sure he’d have noticed in all their years together if he couldn’t read and write.

Buttercup fishes out his notebook from his bag and throws it onto the bed, “See for yourself.”

Tentatively, Geralt opens the book. He’s never seen it before, Buttercup was always secretive and never let him see but he’d figured it was about privacy or a creative process. Now, he can see he was hiding the fact that he couldn’t write. On the pages are drawings and sketches of images that he recognises match up to phrases in songs. Beside them are chord diagrams with finger placements but no drawings of sheet music – another language that Buttercup can’t read.

“Oh,” he says quietly, flicking through the pages. He lands on a page with a drawing of a patch of dashes over what must be a puddle, a sketch of two stick figures horizontally, and finally a bottle with zigzags inside. The lyrics to the song he had been playing that very afternoon.

“Yeah, oh,” Buttercup won’t meet his eyes.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter to me that you can’t read,” Geralt stands up from the bed and puts his hand on Buttercup’s cheek to lift his head.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. If anything I think more, by the fact that you can remember all that poetry and lyrics in your head without the words.”

Buttercup huffs, “You’re just saying that.”

“I don’t lie.”

Buttercup is still holding the little poetry book and looks at it forlornly, “I’m sorry I can’t enjoy your gift. It’s very thoughtful.”

“I can read it to you, if you like?”

That’s how they end up on the bed with Buttercup in his arms and Geralt holding the book out in front of them. He read the poetry out loud and even if he thinks half of it’s rubbish in comparison to what Buttercup has written. The happy noises Buttercup makes while he snuggles into his side makes it worth it.

* * *

Geralt steps softly around the cemetery looking for the grave of the wraith he’s hunting.

The coin is meagre but the village was small. Barely even a village, a handful of houses and one inn with no rooms. His payment would be three times less than what it should be but he knew it was as much as they could muster between them, and they didn’t deserve to die because of it.

His main problem is that Buttercup had come with him.

The inn was closed for the night so he had no option. Geralt is trying to find the corpse of the wraith as fast as possible so that it doesn’t get to Buttercup. He had given the man his steel sword just in case.

So far, he had found nothing that related to the wraith. Then fog began to collect along the ground.

He begins running across the cemetery back to Buttercup.

Geralt curses himself for letting Buttercup come on a hunt with him. Hadn’t he learnt his lesson? Buttercup is going to die on his watch. Not if he could help it.

He reaches Buttercup and Roach and stops at what he sees.

The wraith is there.

But what shocks him is that the wraith is not attacking either man or horse. Buttercup is sat cross-legged in the grass and the wraith is sat opposite floating softly above the ground.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Buttercup speaks softly to the wraith in front of him. The sword Geralt had left him is lying untouched by his side.

The wraith has its head buried in its hands. “It was my fault,” its voice is hoarse and crackly.

“We all make mistakes. You were just as much of a victim.”

The wraith was slowly transforming. The ugly stretched skin started to become smoother and fuller. The greasy strands of hair grow out into full blonde locks.

“I should have fought for her.” The wraiths voice was now soft and weak. The wraith no longer looks like such a hideous creature, instead, it looks like the young woman it had been in life. “I should have protected her.”

“You did the best you could. She knows that, otherwise she would be here, too, with her own unfinished business.”

The wraith nods and smiles at Buttercup. “Thank you.” She turns to look at Geralt and he is surprised that she knew he was there; Buttercup looks startled at his appearance.

“Witcher. You are here to slay me,” the wraith speaks calmly.

“Yes,” Geralt doesn’t deny.

The wraith nods. “Fear not, I go willingly. Follow me. I’ll take you to where you need to go.”

Geralt and Buttercup follow the wraith as she floats in front of them. Geralt has a lot of things he wants to yell at Buttercup about personal safety but he keeps his mouth shut for now. She leads them away from the cemetery and to a decrepit shack. “He buried us here.”

Geralt begs to dig at the ground until he reaches the coffin. Her corpse was there, as fresh as the day she had been buried. Beside her body was the bones of a child.

Buttercup audibly gasps at the sight and faces away. The wraith stares at the open coffin. “Do it.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt runs the aspen stake through her corpse and she fades from sight. He then sets about burning the body.

“Is it over?”

“Yes.”

Buttercup turned back around and eyed the burning grave with sad eyes. “It was her husband. He killed her and their daughter. She blamed herself.”

They stay until the flames died down and then go to find Roach so they could set up camp properly. “Do you have no regard for your own safety?” Geralt asks when they were about to sleep, holding Buttercup tighter than usual.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why would you talk to a monster, instead of swinging your sword at it?”

Buttercup shrugs. “I don’t think my sword skills would have much use against a wraith. I know why they linger, I figured talking would buy me more time than a sword.”

Geralt sighs, “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot,” Buttercup smiles. Geralt doesn’t see it but he feels the stretch of his face and the scratch of his stubble against the skin of his chest. He presses a kiss to the mop of hair on his head.

“You are. Don’t do anything like that again. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.”

* * *

“Who’s a good boy?” Buttercup’s voice is the first thing he hears when he comes back with firewood.

He drops the firewood when he steps into the clearing and sees Buttercup on the floor stroking what is definitely not a dog. His sword is all the way across camp and he won’t have time to grab it.

“Buttercup,” he whispers harshly. “Back away slowly.”

“Why? It’s just a dog.” Buttercup does not heed his warning and keeps showering the not-a-dog in love.

Geralt’s eyes widen, “It’s a barghest!”

Buttercup scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Hardly.” He looks back at the barghest, “You’re not a monster, are you? You’re just a good boy.” The barghest wags its tail and its tongue lolls out of his mouth.

Geralt can hardly believe what he’s seeing. But he realises he shouldn’t be shocked at Buttercup’s ability to charm deadly monsters into submission anymore.

“It’s a spirit from the underworld and could kill you before I even cross this camp.”

Buttercup shakes his head, “Just because he’s a bit ugly. He’s clearly been badly done to, just needs some love. Isn’t that right?”

The barghest licks Buttercup’s cheeks and rolls onto its back for belly rubs. Buttercup happily obliges.

* * *

The tavern that sits on the corner of two streets is full. All the town’s people are celebrating the vanquishing of the sirens and every tavern in town is packed. The sun is nearly set and the candlelight from the tavern falls out into the street and across the cobblestones.

Geralt has already been bought several drinks for saving the town. “They love you,” Buttercup smiles, sipping an ale watching yet another person come to shake Geralt’s hand.

“For tonight,” Geralt conceded, “Tomorrow, they’ll move on and go back to hating Witchers.”

Buttercup shakes his head, “Always a pessimist.”

They’re sat outside on a low wall opposite the tavern. People have already formed a crowd outside and the extra tables that had been put outside are all full up.

“It’s true,” Geralt shrugs but he’s relaxed. He’s never been welcomed by a town in this way before. Usually, he hates the smell and sounds of all the people but for tonight he can almost forget he’s a Witcher.

A man sets up with a fiddle just outside the door the tavern and music fills the street. Buttercup taps his feet in time to the beat and couples begin to dance together.

“Dance with me?”

Geralt shakes his head, “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Humour me?” Buttercup stands and holds out his hand for Geralt and he takes it.

He lets himself be led closer to the fiddler and Buttercup places his hands where they need to go. The other couples are dancing fast and some are even dancing with other couples passing their partners back and forth. Buttercup just sways back and forth, making sure they avoid getting caught up in the more complicated dances.

Geralt relaxes against Buttercup and snakes his hand deeper around his waist and pulling him closer. Buttercup grins and rests his head on his shoulder.

“This is nice,” Buttercup whispers, his lips brushing against Geralt’s neck sending shivers down his spine.

Geralt hums in agreement, closing his eyes and letting himself get lost in the feel of Buttercup against him and the fiddle playing the night away.

* * *

Sometimes, Geralt forgets. He’ll look to his side expecting to see Dandelion riding Salmon, only to find Buttercup sat behind him. He’ll pull Buttercup closer in the morning and nearly mutter Dandelion’s name. He’ll turn and catch those blue eyes and for a moment not know which man it is.

The guilt eats him up at night.

It’s not fair on Buttercup, who doesn’t deserve a man who still loves someone else. Geralt loves Buttercup with all his heart; a fact he hadn’t thought possible.

It wasn’t fair to Dandelion, who didn’t deserve to devote himself to a man who would so easily fall in love with another once he was gone.

He was selfish to love both men. Geralt loves them both with his whole heart, which doesn’t make sense because he only has one to give. And it’s not like he loves one less than the other.

“I think I should leave,” Geralt voices one night at camp, “When we reach town tomorrow.”

Buttercup stops chewing and stares at him and Geralt looks at the fire. He can smell the sadness rolling off him.

“What?” he chokes.

“I think it’s best I leave you. For your own good.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Buttercup stands up, anger filling his voice and he stomps across the clearing to stand in front of him. Geralt avoids meeting his eyes and shrinks under his gaze. “Because it sounds like you’re breaking up with me.”

“I- you deserve better.”

Buttercup makes a strangled noise in his throat, “I’ve followed you for nearly seven years and you’re only now deciding this? I get to choose what I want, I want you. All I’ve wanted is you. For. Seven. Years.”

“You don’t know what you want,” Geralt stands up, glaring at him but Buttercup doesn’t flinch. “You don’t know me. Not really.”

Buttercup scoffs, “Oh, ho, ho, yes I do. I know you hate when how people treat you and you also think you deserve it. I know you’re secretly a softie and romantic even if you don’t know how to be. I know you like strawberries. I know you’re a massive nerd. I know everything about you and I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Geralt shakes his head, “I’m sorry, you don’t.” He steps past Buttercup and paces their small camp trying to find the words. Buttercup crosses his arms and watches him. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

“Well, why do you want to leave me then?”

“Because I love someone else!”

“What?” Buttercup drops his arms to his side and staggers back.

“Not like that,” Geralt runs his hand down his face, “It’s sort of like that. I don’t know!”

Buttercup is silent and slowly backing away from him, the scent of heartbreak thick on the air.

“I love you,” Geralt says, putting his hands out in a pleading gesture stepping closer to him.

“Really?” Buttercup asks, his voice thick and tears filling his eyes.

“I do,” Geralt nods, “Please believe me.”

“Okay,” Buttercup nods, “Then how can you love someone else?”

He’s stopped and Geralt is within reaching distance. Carefully, he takes Buttercup’s hands and guides him to sit down. “I loved him before I met you, and I never stopped.”

There’s a dawning look of realisation in Buttercup’s eyes, “He’s the reason you held a knife to my throat when you met me.”

“Yes, you look like him. I thought a doppler was trying to use him to get to me. He died nearly thirty years ago.”

“Do you only love me because I remind you of him?”

“No,” he assures quickly, and it’s true. Even if Buttercup looks like Dandelion and acts like him occasionally, he’s very different, more open and energetic. Geralt loves him for him, not for who he could be. “You’re different. I love you because of who you are. Trust me. After he died, I never thought I would love again until you came along.”

Buttercup wipes his tears with the back of his hand, “If you love me why are you leaving?”

“I still love him. Just as much as I did when he was alive. Just as much as I love you. It’s not fair on you,” Geralt explains, hoping he understands, “You’re still young. You can find someone who will love you and only you.”

Buttercup rolls his eyes, “You’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“I thought you were leaving me for someone else. It’s okay to still love the people you’ve lost,” Buttercup smiles softly, “They live on through your love. There’s no limit to how much love you can give to people. It’s an infinite resource.”

Geralt frowns, “I only have one heart.”

Buttercup laughs, “And it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen.”

Geralt intertwines their fingers, “You don’t care that I still love him?”

“No,” Buttercup whispers. “I would never begrudge you that.”

* * *

Buttercup is coughing again. Geralt wakes to the chesty coughs and the shaking body next to him.

“Are you alright?”

He doesn’t respond. He sits up and coughs even harder. Buttercup’s back heaves with each cough. They are loud enough to wake the whole forest. They are wet and between each Buttercup is bitterly fighting for breath.

Geralt places his hand on Buttercup’s back and rubs it comfortingly. His face is pale and sweaty. He coughs one final time and a large amount of blood comes spluttering out of his mouth and stains the blanket.

He takes a deep breath and collapses against Geralt.

“I think I’m sick,” he says weakly.

“No shit,” Geralt shifts so he can look at Buttercup better.

His eyes are half-lidded and blood dribbles down his chin. Geralt begins to panic at the sight of him. Buttercup is struggling to breathe still; his lungs rattle with each exhale and he looks like he is going to be sick.

“Think ‘m gonna die,” he whispers weakly and shuts his eyes. He leans against Geralt and nuzzles lightly into the crook of his neck. His forehead nearly burns Geralt’s skin.

How had he not noticed him getting sick? Sure, he has been feeling run down for nearly a week now but it hadn’t seemed serious. It had just been a cold. He runs through his memories of the week – had he missed something? Had he not realised how bad it was because Witchers don’t get sick? He should have brought Buttercup to a healer soon.

“No sleeping,” Geralt pushes Buttercup off him gently, ignoring his protests. “We’re riding to the nearest town. I want a doctor to look at you.”

Buttercup nods. Geralt packs up camp, casting his eyes over to him every few seconds. Buttercup just sits limply and watches. Geralt has never seen him like this and his worry grows with each passing minute he sees the life force drain from him.

He hoists Buttercup onto Roach and sits him in front of him. It is strange having the bard sit in front of him instead of sat behind him playing his lute as they rode. Now the only thing keeping him upright is Geralt’s tight hold around his waist as he urges Roach to go faster.

It takes longer than Geralt likes to reach the next town.

The morning sun has already risen and Buttercup’s breathing is fast and shallow. Thankfully there are already people setting up market in the street. He pushes down the main street and stops at the first vendor he sees.

“Where is the town’s healer?” he calls out to the man, refusing to waste time by dismounting Roach.

The vendor is silent as he looks at him and then at Buttercup disdainfully. “We have none.”

“What?” Geralt barks feeling the panic rise. Buttercup needs medical attention now. “Is there no one who can help?”

“There is a druid who may be able to,” the vendor shrugs, “He’ll be at the mayor’s house. In front of the white tree.”

Geralt doesn’t wait for anything else and urges Roach on. The townspeople taking up the street means he can’t go any faster than a walking pace and he grits his teeth. When he finally reaches the mayors house, he dismounts Roach and takes Buttercup off her. He is weak on his feet and has to lean heavily on Geralt.

“We’re here for the druid.”

The guard is reluctant to let them in but steps aside when Geralt threatens to spear him in half with his own sword. They are led to an empty room and Geralt sits Buttercup down in a large cushioned chair which he immediately sinks into and closes his eyes.

Geralt paces until the door opens.

“Are you the druid?”

The man smiles. He holds no urgency. “I am. My name is Mousesack-”

“Can you help him?” Geralt isn’t going to waste any more time.

Mousesack seems to notice Buttercup for the first time and walks over to him. He examines him for a minute and Buttercup weakly obeys his instructions to breathe, open his mouth and cough.

“He’s sick.”

“I know that,” Geralt spits. “Can you treat it?”

Mousesack sighs and shakes his head, “I’m afraid not.”

Geralt clenches his fist and even Buttercup opens his eyes at the information.

“What do you mean? There has to be something. Medicine I can get for him.”

Mousesack shakes his head. “He’s afflicted with the plague. There’s nothing to be done. And he’s in the late stages of the disease I’m afraid. All you can do now is make him more comfortable.”

Geralt swallows and refuses to let the tears stinging the back of his eyes to the surface.

The plague? He had known there was a sickness spreading over the Continent but he didn’t think either of them would get it. He didn’t even know how Buttercup had become infected. Which filthy tavern had it been? Which person had carelessly coughed near Buttercup and in doing so stolen the only good thing about his life?

“Geralt?” Buttercup asks weakly, looking at him with fear in his eyes.

Geralt goes to him and kneels in front of the chair, taking his hands gently in his. “You’ll be okay. I’ll figure something out.”

“You can’t stay at the inn. There’s a town order that those who are infected are to stay away from public spaces,” Mousesack informs him.

Geralt swallows, “Then where can we go? We travel, we have no home.”

Buttercup’s hand is clammy and hot in his and his skin is a sickly pale. He won’t survive sleeping outside. The dread in Geralt’s stomach grows.

“You can stay here,” Mousesack offers, “The mayor and his family left at the first signs of illness. They won’t be back for a long time.”

Geralt nods, “Thank you.”

He helps move Buttercup across the mayor’s house into a room with a large double bed. Almost instantly, Buttercup falls asleep wrapped up in the linens. He looks so small.

Geralt sets all their things inside and then heads to the market to find an apothecary or anything that might help. He hadn’t noticed on the ride in but now he sees the dead that line the streets. Rotting bodies that aren’t spared a glance as people move from stall to stall.

He finds a merchant selling herbs and medicinal vials and buys as many as he can afford. Geralt doesn’t know what will help but he’ll try anything at this point.

“How long has the plague been here?” he asks the vendor, gesturing to the bodies.

The vendor shrugs, “Dunno, couple weeks. Half the town’s already dead, I’m lucky to be in business.”

“Why are you leaving the bodies in the street?”

“Plague cart hasn’t been around today,” he tells him with an all too casual tone of voice.

Geralt raises his eyebrows, “This is just the bodies from overnight?”

“Aye,” the vendor confirms, grimacing at the nearest body with blood all down its chin, “Not the worst day I’ve seen.”

Geralt walks back to the mayor’s house with shaking hands. The bodies of the dead were horrifying to behold, and he had seen some horrifying dead bodies. He pictures Buttercup amongst the dead and vows to not let it happen.

* * *

“Read to me?” Buttercup passes him a book from the side table. He’s not getting any better but the medicine Geralt had bought and Mousesack’s limited magic had helped slow the process.

On the day Buttercup had been feeling better Mousesack had shown him around the house and Buttercup came back with a pile of poetry books for Geralt to read to him.

Geralt takes the book and wraps an arm around Buttercup’s shoulders so he can hold him tight to his side. He knows he can’t avoid the inevitable. Neither of them are acknowledging what will happen.

He flicks through the book until he lands on a page he hasn’t read yet. The past week has been filled with him reading poetry – it was as though Buttercup wanted to soak up as much as he could before he died. Geralt hates it, not the poetry just what it means.

It means that Buttercup has accepted that he will die.

With a wobbling voice he begins to read.

_All the complicated details_

_Of the attiring_

_And the disattiring are completed!_

_A liquid moon_

_Moves gently among_

_The long branches._

_Thus having prepared their buds_

_Against a sure winter_

_The wise trees_

_Stand sleeping in the cold._

Buttercup takes his hand in his. Geralt doesn’t realise his hand is shaking until Buttercup stills it.

“Talk to me,” Buttercup whispers.

“You’ve accepted it,” Geralt swallows.

Buttercup nods, “And you haven’t.”

He shakes his head and Buttercup shifts them so that he is holding Geralt to his chest. Geralt wraps his arms around him tightly and Buttercup presses kisses to the top of his head and whispers sweet nothings in his hair.

He doesn’t want to lose this. He can’t.

“Won’t ever accept it,” Geralt mumbles, his voice muffled from where his face is buried against Buttercup’s chest. From here he can hear the rattling in his lungs and feel the unsteady motion as he draws in each breath.

“You have to, my love,” Buttercup whispers, threading his fingers through his hair. It’s long now, falling past his chin. Who will run their fingers through his hair when Buttercup is gone? “You can’t stop it, and I can’t fight it.”

Geralt digs his fingers in harder to Buttercup’s side. He’s probably bruising him but he can’t let go.

“No,” he says stubbornly.

Buttercup laughs but it quickly turns into coughs and Geralt quickly moves and helps him sit up straighter and rubbing his back. When the coughing fit subsides the white linens are staining with sprayed blood.

“I’ll get you fresh linens,” Geralt says, staring at the bright red blood soaking into the sheets.

“Geralt-” Buttercup reaches for him but he leaves. He can’t stay in there.

He walks the corridors aimlessly. It’s too much. Everything in him is screaming at him to fix it but he’s helpless. Geralt knows how to hunt monsters and kill and fight, he doesn’t know how to heal. He doesn’t know how to save the ones he loves.

He runs into Mousesack and absently tells him Buttercup needs new sheets. He can’t stay there.

Eventually, he finds his way to the garden. Geralt picks up a large branch that has fallen to the ground and throws it as far as he can, letting out a yell of anger and hurt and frustration. He punches the tree until his knuckles bleed.

And then he accepts it.

* * *

Morning light is beginning to trickle in through the windows. Buttercup has been tossing and turning all night and neither of them have gotten much sleep. The linens have been changed twice from how much Buttercup has sweat.

Geralt is sat at the side of the bed clutching Buttercup’s hand as he mutters and rolls around in a fever dream. This is it. He can feel it in his gut.

“Geralt!” Buttercup wakes with a start, frantic red-rimmed eyes looking around the room until they settle on him.

“I’m right here.”

Buttercup swallows, “You were-”

“It was just a dream,” Geralt strokes his hand, “I’m here now.”

It doesn’t take long for Buttercup to start coughing. Thick globules of blood come from his lungs and, during the brief respites, the rattling of his breaths is loud for Geralt to hear even without his Witcher senses.

Buttercup’s hair is stuck to his head from the sweat and he struggles to stay awake and focussed. Geralt forces the tears that collect in his eyes to stay – he won’t make this about him.

After a few hours, Buttercup finally wakes and is lucid. Geralt gives him some water but he won’t touch the bread. His hand is weak in his.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Buttercup whispers.

Geralt only nods, if he speaks he knows he won’t be able to keep back the flood gates.

“Thank you. You saved my life,” Buttercup whispers.

“No,” Geralt denies and the tears begin to drop, “You’re dying. I’ve not saved your life.”

Buttercup smiles weakly, “I don’t mean now. Back then. When you let me follow you,” he’s interrupted by a coughing fit. He wipes at his mouth and smears blood across his cheek. “I was a nobody. Doomed to stay in that town. Then you came along, my knight in shining armour. You saved me.”

“I’m no knight.”

Buttercup hums, “I suppose not. But you’re still my hero.”

“Cheesy,” Geralt teases and can’t help the small laugh.

Buttercup smiles as wide as he is able, “You love me.”

“I do. Gods, I love you so much,” Geralt says vehemently, selfishly letting tears fall down his face freely.

“I love you more,” Buttercup whispers, reaching out to wipe at Geralt’s tears, “Don’t cry, love. You gave me the best life. And I’m happy that the last thing I’ll see before I die is you.”

Geralt leans into the touch of his palm and presses kisses to his wrist. “How am I meant to live without you?”

“They way you’ve always done,” Buttercup coughs again. The coughs getting longer and producing more blood by the minute. “With the knowledge that you are loved.”

Geralt slips into the bed beside him uncaring of the damp sheets and Buttercup’s body burning with fever. He holds him through the coughing fits until, about half an hour later, he takes his last breath.

He moves and leaves the bed, casting a glance at Buttercup’s cold body in bloodied sheets. Geralt walks until he’s in town. His body is thrumming with pain with no way of getting it out.

The town is no less full of death that Buttercup’s room. The plague cart is making its rounds, already piled high with bodies. A mother screams in anguish as the body of her child is placed atop the pile and another comforts her citing that it was destiny.

Destiny, Geralt thinks, is bullshit.

It’s not anyone’s destiny to die. There’s no order to it. Buttercup didn’t die because of some large grander plan. He died because of a plague before his time.

Geralt refuses to let Buttercup be another body on a pile and makes his way back to the house before any of the servants get any ideas.

* * *

“I’m sorry, my friend.”

Geralt doesn’t look up at the voice. He has been sat in front of Buttercup’s grave for hours. The soil freshly piled over him and flowers resting on top. He can’t shake the thought of his body slowly turning to rot beneath the ground.

Mousesack sits next to him. “You are more than welcome to stay until you are ready to go.”

Geralt nods. It is his duty to take the Path but any thought of leaving Buttercup behind feels like a betrayal.

“Thank you,” his voice is hoarse and scratchy.

Buttercup’s songs dance around his mind. The lively chords and the way he would prance around the inns. He had been so full of life. Geralt almost doesn’t believe that such a man could ever be anything less.

He remembers Dandelion.

Twice he has buried the one he loved.

Geralt wonders if he is cursed. It would be just his luck. He pulls at the grass in front of him and tears the strands apart until his fingertips become grass-stained. A Witcher’s life was meant to be a lonely one.

He can practically hear Vesemir’s disapproval. This is why Witcher’s were trained to have no emotions. It made them sloppy. They were distracting. Geralt has turned his back on his training two times now. He doesn’t regret it. If there was a chance to have Dandelion or Buttercup back in his arms, he would take it without a second thought.

But he won’t make the same mistake a third time. 

The chances of coming across another person who could take his heart so completely sounded like Destiny laughing in his face. He could never be so lucky. Geralt of Rivia is done with love.

Mousesack leaves after a while. Geralt stays until sundown and then slowly makes his way back to the house. With each step away from Buttercup’s grave his guilt and his resolve grows stronger.

When he reaches his room, he comes face to face with Buttercup’s lute resting softly against the fire mantlepiece. He picks it up gently and his heart breaks with the knowledge that it will never be played again. Geralt had considered burying it with Buttercup as he had done with Dandelion, but when the time came, he wanted something to remember him by.

* * *

“You’re retreating into yourself, my friend,” Mousesack takes a seat next to him

Geralt doesn’t deign to give him a response, choosing to keep his head buried into his book. The druid had an extensive library and he has been reading the same page on obscure monster lore for an hour now. His eyes won’t focus on the letters when all he can hear is the sound of Buttercup’s laboured breathing echoing forever in his mind.

“It’s not good. You need to keep going,” Mousesack tries again.

Geralt still doesn’t look up.

“This isn’t what he’d want for you.”

Geralt snaps his head up, “You know nothing of what he’d want.”

Mousesack narrows his eyes, “He was my friend, too. Wallowing in self-pity will get you nowhere.”

Geralt grits his teeth and sends Mousesack his darkest glare but the druid meets his gaze head on.

“I’m leaving for Skellige in a week,” Mousesack announces, “You can come with me. I think it’s best you don’t stay in this house.”

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt returns to his book, staring at the top of the page again.

* * *

A week later he finds himself accompanying Mousesack across the Continent to the harbours in Cintra.

“This is where we part ways.”

“Are you sure?” Mousesack looks over his shoulder at the ship being boarded, “Plenty of siren contracts in Skellige.”

“I’m sure.”

“Very well. Good luck on your adventures, friend,” Mousesack shakes his hand.

“And you on yours. Thank you, for everything,” Geralt says it, and he means it. Without Mousesack, Buttercup would have died much sooner.

Mousesack grins, “Any time. I hope to see your sour complexion in the future.”

Geralt snorts, “You will.”

* * *

It’s been a year.

Buttercup’s lute has been faithfully attached to Roach’s saddlebags. Sometimes, the lute will hit lightly against her side and release a hum of sound. As if it’s calling out to be played. Geralt’s heart aches at the sound every time.

He’s spent the last month travelling town to town in search of a contract to no avail. With no work, the townspeople are less than accommodating. He’s almost forgotten what the feeling of a bed beneath his fingers feels like.

It’s late Autumn now and the nights are getting colder with each passing day. He’s making his way back to Kaer Morhen for winter and taking the long way round to avoid the de Sade estate, which he has done so for the past thirty years. He’s regretting this decision when his fingers begin to hurt from the cold. His extra blanket is slung over Roach – he can’t afford to lose her to the cold.

The fire he had built hours ago when he made camp was no more than embers now. The ground was damp and there was no viable firewood anywhere nearby. He can see frost starting to form of the tips of grass. He strokes Roach’s neck and he can tell she isn’t fairing well with the weather. Her heart is slowing. She hasn’t eaten well in the time they’ve been travelling either.

He stares at the lute for a long time.

He unties it from the saddlebag. The wood is smooth against his hands but dry from a lack of regular oiling and proper treatment. Hesitantly he strums across the strings. They’re disgustingly out of tune and Geralt stops.

It’s too cold.

“I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes and brings the lute down against his leg to break it in half. He breaks it down until it’s no more than a splintered pile of wood.

Geralt tosses a few of the pieces onto the embers and casts ignii. Instantly the wood catches alight. It twists and bends and blackens in the flame. Geralt wants to be sick.

The heat warms his fingers and face. He hears Roach huff and settle into a more comfortable position. Slowly he adds the remaining wood to the fire until there is nothing left. Everything he once had of Buttercup is gone.

_“Oh, thank god.” Buttercup breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his lute resting against a bar stool. He scooped it up and pressed a kiss to the wood._

_They had left the town an hour ago. Buttercup was half asleep and resting against Geralt’s back as they rode away. When he woke up fully, he realised he had left his lute behind and demanded they return for it._

_The whole ride back he hadn’t been able to stop anxiously fidgeting and worrying about if it had been stolen._

_Geralt shook his head fondly, “We could’ve bought you a new one at the next town.”_

_Buttercup dropped his mouth aghast, “A new lute? No, no, no, this lute is special. This lute is a part of me. No other will do.”_

The memory comes unwillingly and slams into Geralt. He glares at the burning wood and at his hands. He shouldn’t have used it. He should’ve walked further from camp to find more wood.

He clenches his hand so tightly his knuckles go white. He deserved to freeze. Deserved to struggle. He was a monster; how could he destroy Buttercups most prized possession? Now he had nothing left to remember him by.

That night Geralt gets no sleep. He watches until the flames consume all the lute wood and turn it into ash. When the morning comes and he sets off, he grimaces at the lack of musical hums knocking against Roach’s thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is Electric Love - Borns and the poem is Winter Trees by William Carlos Williams
> 
> hope you liked it! Let me know! My tumblr is @pansexualbuchanan <3


	6. a memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a little late i kind of struggled to write this chapter, I had an exam yesterday, I'm moving house in 2 days and I've been sent some hateful anons on tumblr so I'm sorry if this chapter isn't as good as the others
> 
> still, I hope you enjoy!!

Buttercup is born on a hot summers night in the small town of Sarda. He wakes the village with his first screams and is pressed into his mother's arms. The cottage he lives in is home to his whole family, ten people crammed into the small two-bedroom property.

When he’s old enough to be left alone he spends his time down by the creeks where the water runs off the mountain. He plays with the other children his age is a very happy boy. His family can’t afford to buy him shoes, and his clothes are hand-me-downs upon hand-me-downs with more patches than original fabric. He doesn’t care, most other families in the village are in a similar state.

He is his mothers only child, and although he has three cousins, they are much older than him. Buttercup is well-loved by his family. Anything extra they can afford goes to him.

And then, a kikimora takes residence in the swamp outside of town.

It’s his grandparents who are the first victims. They had been travelling to the next town to see a healer when they came across its path. The kikimora takes a few more victims and a group of men in town decide to take up arms. They set off in a big group with whatever melee weapons they can scrounge to slay the beast. His father is one of them. He doesn’t come back.

A month passes and people stop taking the path out of town. Buttercup is playing with the other children. A girl plucks a dandelion from the ground and Buttercup takes it from her hand with a laugh.

She chases after him as he runs with his prize clutched in his hand. He runs and runs until he comes to a stop in front of a tall man and a horse. The girl is no longer chasing him and he offers the flower to the man.

He’s never seen anyone like him before. His clothes are dark black and he has his own horse and swords. He must be a prince, Buttercup thinks, or a knight.

His mother calls him back and he reluctantly goes. She keeps him inside and tells him off for speaking to a Witcher.

A Witcher, Buttercup rolls the name over and over in his mind. Those left of his family pile into the living room to discuss the ‘mutant beast’. Buttercup keeps thinking over the title 'Witcher', it makes him feel excited, safe.

That night, when his family is asleep, he sneaks out of the house. He runs barefoot over the cobblestones to the main street. Buttercup hides behind a porch when he sees the Witcher ride back into town.

His white hair reflects the sunlight and his armour and swords are bloody. Buttercup doesn’t see him again after that but the next morning he hears that the kikimora has been killed.

* * *

Slowly, his large family gets smaller.

His aunts and uncles move out and with them his cousins. They leave to find a village with better jobs. His grandparents from his father's side pass of old age. Soon, it’s just him and his mother. The cottage feels impossibly big and quiet.

It gets even quieter when his mother grows ill.

After that, Buttercup no longer lives in that little cottage. He’s taken in by the orphanage run by old nan Agatha.

Agatha is kind and generous. The other children boarded at the house aren’t. They fight for beds and for scraps of food. Buttercup goes hungry most days. The other boys are bigger than him and have no trouble stealing what little food he got.

By the time he’s nine, he’s one of the skinniest boys in the orphanage. His ribs stick out and he can feel every bone in his spine. Even before he ended up here, he had never been so underweight.

Agatha sits him on her kitchen counter late one night and frowns, prodding at his ribs. “You shouldn’t let the other kids walk over you.”

“It’s not my fault,” Buttercup glares.

She hands him a small chunk of bread, “Here. I’m going to get you an apprenticeship in town, boy.”

Buttercup chews slowly, savouring each bite even if the bread is stale. “Where?”

“The stables.”

* * *

“You don’t have any shoes?” the horse master looks down at his bare feet and Buttercup shuffles awkwardly.

“No, sir.”

The horse master hums and hands him a rake that’s taller than him, “Muck out the stables. Be here every day by dawn.”

Buttercup lifts the rake and nearly stumbles at the weight, “Yes, sir.”

The horse master watches with a critical eye as he cleans out the first few stables until he’s satisfied and leaves him alone.

It takes three weeks of wages before he can afford to buy himself his first pair of shoes. They feel strange on his feet. Constricting. The stiff leather rubs at his skin leaving blisters. He wears them to work and at night when he makes it back to the orphanage, he lets his feet free and keeps his shoes close so the other boys can’t steal them.

* * *

By the time he’s fifteen, the town has gotten wealthier. Buttercup was kicked out of the orphanage when he turned twelve. The horse master let him sleep in the hayloft. The town gets it’s first library when a scholar comes to town and sets up a small shop.

After his shift at the stables, Buttercup finds himself in the library and looking at the hundreds of books that fill its shelves.

“See anything you like?” the owner walks over to him with a kind smile.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Buttercup blushes, “I can’t read. I just wanted to look.”

“What’s your name?”

“Buttercup.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Buttercup,” he shakes his hand, “I’m Kacper. I just moved here from Oxenfurt.”

Buttercup is fairly sure that’s some northern university and his interest piques. Kacper grins when he sees and guides him to the back of the shop where even more books are piled high. “Are all these yours?” he asks in wonderment, picking up a book and flicking through the pages. The words on the page make no sense to him but the decoration on the pages are beautiful.

“They are,” Kacper nods, “I can find you a book on anything you want.”

Buttercup licks his lips, “Do you have any books on Witchers?”

Kacper’s grin falters, “Witchers? Why ever would you want to know about them?”

Buttercup shrugs, “One came here when I was a boy to kill a monster that killed my family.”

Kacper hums and begins rooting around. He produces a very old and worn looking book that’s covered in dust. Buttercup takes the book, the pages are yellowed with age and the ink faded.

“There’s not much in there. Just general details on Witchers, how they are mutant beasts, they have no emotions, all they know is how to kill.”

“Is it true?” Buttercup puts the book down. It felt wrong to hold it.

Kacper nods, “It must be. You’ve met one. Surely you remember.”

All Buttercup remembers is a Witcher making a wish on a dandelion and thinking he must be a knight. “I suppose,” he agrees weakly, the words bitter on his tongue.

* * *

Buttercup finds himself gong to Kacper’s shop more and more. If he’s lucky the man will read him some of the books on the shelves. Buttercup likes the poetry books the best; the short rhythmic lines are easy to remember and he recites the poems at night until he can remember them all by heart.

When he’s sixteen, Kacper gives him a lute. It’s an old and beaten thing but the strings still sound heavenly.

“Where did you get it?” he breathes, stroking over the curved wood. It feels like he was meant to have it.

Kacper taps his nose and smiles, “We all have our secrets.”

Buttercup puts his fingers randomly on the strings and strums, producing a very unpleasant sound. He grimaces while Kacper gives a hearty laugh and hands him a small book. Inside there’s lines with marks on them – music sheets he realises.

He flicks to the back of the book and on the final pages are diagrams of the chords with finger placements for certain frets. He can’t understand the writing beneath them but he can understand where to put his fingers. Buttercup copies the first diagram, painstakingly arranging his fingers on the strings. The chord that rings out is in tune.

“Thank you,” he swallows as his eyes tear up.

Kacper waves his hand and hands him another book, this one has empty pages, and then an ink pot. “Here,” he says, “Now you can write your own music.”

Buttercup copies down all the chord diagrams in the first pages of his new notebook. That night, instead of reciting poetry, he begins to write his first song. He hastily scribbles messy chord diagrams alongside sketches of the story his song tells. He no longer cares about the hay that pokes his back as he tries to sleep or the bugs that bite him, he knows this is what he is supposed to do.

* * *

Sarda is the most boring town in the Continent, Buttercup believes. He knows everyone by name and knows who is friends with who. They don’t get many travellers this way because the mountains that surround the valleys are too covered in monsters. There’s nothing for him here, never has been and never will.

He spends his evenings performing at the local taverns. The rush of performance provides him with some entertainment; for a few hours he can pretend he is performing in the northern cities, or in royal courts. He sings songs about monsters and fairy tales and grand adventures, for a moment pretending that is the reality of his life.

Buttercup still works at the stables, he doubts he will ever leave them. Performing is his only escape.

He loves it, truly. When he sings the crowd forms together and they dance and enjoy his music. It’s something special, he thinks, that a voice can bring people together like this.

And yet, when he looks at the crowds and at all the familiar faces, he realises he doesn’t belong to any of them. None of them are his family. None of them are his friends. He is alone, watching from the side-lines desperately begging them to let him in. All they do is take. They take his charm and his talent but not him. They may toss a few coins his way, not enough to get by and not nearly as much as they could probably spare.

He sleeps around with the local girls and boys. People he’s known since childhood but they don’t really know him. For a night he can pretend he is loved. Skin on skin, hot kisses and a soft bed are enough to briefly forget that he is doomed to a life of loneliness.

In the mornings, when they kick him out or he gets chased away by their fathers he is brutally reminded of the truth. He has nowhere to go. No one to call his and nothing but the old hayloft to call home.

* * *

There’s a knife to his throat and a man with burning golden eyes is pushing him against a wall. If the man wasn’t so attractive Buttercup might be a little more afraid.

“What are you?” the man snarls. A rather strange question, if Buttercup is being honest. He knows the man had been inside so he must know he’s a bard.

“W-what?” he stutters.

“What. Are. You.” The man repeats and Buttercup is growing more confused by the second. This isn’t the first time he’s be threatened but it certainly never happened like this.

“A bard! What do you mean?” Then he thinks that this man might be trying to get him to admit he’s a bastard, or philanderer or some other insulting name. “If I slept with your daughter, I’m sorry!” Buttercup is also fairly sure that isn’t the reason, this man is new in town but he can’t think of what he could have done to offend him.

“You’re wearing a dead man’s face.”

Now that is an insult he had never heard. Of all the things he could rightfully be accused of having a face of a dead man is not one of them. Any extra money he earned went on moisturising salves – a bard had to look good, after all.

“Excuse you! I keep my face looking very nice if I do say so myself.”

“Stop lying. You’re a doppler, aren’t you.”

At that, Buttercup looks more closely at the man in front of him. Armour, swords, unnatural yellow eyes and a wolf medallion. A Witcher. He’s an idiot for not realising sooner but the situation starts to make a little sense. Clearly, he has been mistaken for whatever this Witcher is hunting.

He denies being anything less than human and the knife at his throat digs deeper. He feels the sting of it cutting his flesh and a small dribble of blood. He rambles as the panic begins to grow, he wonders if this is what most people felt at the mere sight of a Witcher. He had never got that but looking at the wild rage in this Witcher’s eyes he somewhat understands. Although, he doesn’t think his life is truly in danger.

Buttercup’s thoughts are confirmed when the dagger is removed from his neck and the Witcher looks remorseful. “I’m sorry,” the Witcher says, “You look like someone I used to know.”

The next thing he knows is he’s inviting the Witcher for a drink. Usually, after being threatened he’d run away but something is drawing him in and he doesn’t want to resist.

* * *

Buttercup lies awake thinking of Geralt. He’s out there in the forest right now killing some monster. Something about him has his stomach in knots. The sun rises and Buttercup makes up his mind. He makes his meagre belongings and heads downstairs to the brown mare.

Geralt didn’t know he worked there and had spent a solid thirty minutes gushing about his horse last night when they were a few drinks down. He sits beside the horse, Roach, and waits.

He almost falls asleep until Geralt arrives and tells him he can’t join him. Following the rules has never been something he’s been fond of.

* * *

For all his dalliances in love, Buttercup has never felt like this.

Geralt is home, safety, even out in the forest when anything could kill them Buttercup feels like they could take on anything. He thinks Geralt might feel the same way.

When he rides Roach he usually faces backwards so he can play and entertain them as they travel. The times that he faces forward and wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist he’s certain he can feel the sudden intake of breath from the Witcher.

He loves him, it’s easy to love him. Geralt is brave and handsome and kind. The feeling he had felt since he was a child that he was missing out is gone. He is found in Geralt.

His heart leaps into his throat when Geralt comes back to camp staggering and clutching his side.

“Oh my god are you okay?” he stands and goes to his side. There’s so much blood. Buttercup fears he might have to watch him die. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, what happened?”

“Got bit.”

Buttercup treats and wraps the wound as best as he can. He can feel his heart beating hard against his chest. Geralt promises he’ll be alright but it doesn’t calm his racing mind. He realises that he can lose Geralt at any time. He risks his life every day fighting monsters and any one of them could be his last.

He’s never been one to waste an opportunity. He leans forward and kisses him.

* * *

Buttercup pulls off his boots and chucks them aside with a grunt, sighing happily when his toes wiggle free.

Geralt snorts, “What’s wrong with your boots?”

“Everything,” Buttercup gripes, “They’re too constricting.” He walks around their camp to feel the grass beneath his feet and settles down again

“Is that right?” Geralt smirks as he pokes at the fire.

“Yep,” Buttercup grins, swinging his lute in front of him and beginning to pick a melody.

“New song?”

“Maybe,” Buttercup strums softly, “Haven’t found the words yet.”

Geralt cooks a rabbit over the fire as Buttercup tries to pick out the right chords. He hums a melody, still at a loss for words. Looking at Geralt across the fire he realises how yellow his eyes are, the colour of them amplified by the flames. Then lyrics begin to slot into place and he hastily scribbles down chord diagrams and pictures of a ship and sunlight, making sure to angle the book away from Geralt so he can't see that he can't write.

_Sing me awake with a song about pirates_

_And I will try to harmonise_

_Sip the sunlight from your eyes_

_Oh sing me awake_

_With all the things we’ll do today_

_But instead we’ll build a den_

_Out of pillows and get drunk again_

_Cause everyone knows, sex is better when_

_You’re unemployed_

Geralt snorts loudly, “Really?”

Buttercup laughs, “It is!”

* * *

Buttercup is walking beside Geralt instead of riding Roach with him. He had been getting antsy just sitting there watching the world go by and needed to walk instead. At the orphanage, he would get a cane to his hands when he got too fidgety.

He was a few paces behind, taking his time and admiring the wildflowers that grow by the side of the track.

It’s just after midday and the sun is boiling hot, he wants to drink the rest of his water but knows he needs to conserve it. He’s looking into the shade of the overgrown forest longingly. Then he sees her.

It’s a lady perched just behind the first row of trees, although she is no human. Her skin is a pale silvery blue and long mossy green hair frames her face and falls past her shoulders. Her eyes are bright blue, unnaturally so. She smiles and bares her teeth and each is sharp and pointed. From her back sprout two large wings with intricate markings. She beckons him with one finger, her fingernail is long and pointed.

In a daze Buttercup walks forward, staying on the path until he is right at the forest edge.

“Hello there,” she speaks and her voice sounds like silk.

“Hello.”

Her grin spreads impossibly wide, “May I have your name?”

Buttercup knows what she is then. A fae. His mother had warned him about them when he was just a child and the village elders had always spread warning tales about children who got stolen by the fae. He had thought it was just a fairy tale.

“No,” he says weakly. “But you may call me Buttercup.”

The fae laughs, “Clever boy.”

Buttercup glances down the path, Geralt is still riding Roach and doesn’t seem to have noticed that he had stopped. “I really must be going.”

“Worry not, he won’t notice you’re gone until we’re done.”

Buttercup licks his lips, “What is it you want from me?”

“A boon, a favour.”

“You haven’t given me anything yet,” Buttercup points out.

The fae nods, she is stunningly beautiful despite the fact that none of her features suggest she should be. “No, but I can give you anything you want.”

“Thank you, but I don’t want anything.”

“Water?” From nowhere she conjures a large glass jug filled with water. Buttercup’s mouth feels incredibly dry and the water looks delicious.

“I have my own,” he shakes his head.

The fae pours the jug and the water splashes to the ground and soaks into the soil, it pours and pours but the jug never empties. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The water runs and empties and the fae throws the jug behind her and it disappears. “Perhaps shade, no matter where you stand?” The shade from the forest begins to creep forward onto the path.

Buttercup steps back so that he is not stood in it. “No, thank you.” The shade retreats back to its natural position.

“What is it you want then?”

“I don’t know. Something that matches what you will take.” He knows there is no way to leave this encounter until a deal is struck, and if he’s being honest he is enjoying this, too. “What boon do you want?”

The fae’s eyes light up as he begins the bargain. “I see you have not much to give, you have your lute but we do so love to hear music in the forest,” she ponders aloud and scans him carefully. “You hold no status, lands or power. You travel with a Witcher, who knows how long you might live, I’d hate to see you die before I could collect my favour.”

Buttercup raises looks at her defiantly, “So choose something now. What do you want so that I may choose.”

The fae smiles and her eyes fill with glee when she decides what she wants, “A memory.”

Buttercup considers it, he would hate to lose any of his memories but he’s only young he has plenty of time left to make more. “A memory,” he agrees, “I will have the water.”

“It’s a deal,” the fae beams in delight. He feels his waterskin grow heavy at his hip and then a tingling sensation in his head.

The memory begins to surface in his mind as the fae pulls it to the forefront. He doesn’t know what it is yet and he hopes he can catch a glimpse before he loses it forever.

_He sees Geralt but the image is hazy, he’s fighting a monster he can’t see._

_“Stay back,” Geralt yells, his hair is shorter._

_“Like hell,” his own voice sounds out. He’s holding a sword. He’s side by side with Geralt._

_“Dandelion, I said stay back!” Geralt’s voice yells again but the sound is fading. Buttercup can’t grasp onto the images or the sounds, in fact he can’t even remember what he just saw._

“Thank you,” the fae says, she sounds happy and sated but she still looks at Buttercup with interest. Different from the interest of a deal.

Buttercup runs his mind over the last ten seconds trying to recall the memory but he can’t, his head hurts. “You’re welcome.”

“Run along now, little Dandelion.”

He starts walking and catches up with Geralt quickly enough, the Witcher doesn’t ask where he’s been or seem to notice he had gone at all. He takes a drink from his waterskin and can’t help taking gulps of the cool refreshing water.

No matter how hard he tries he can’t find the memory. It belonged to the fae now. His waterskin remains full no matter how much he drinks until they leave reach the end of the forest four days later.

* * *

Geralt hands him a book, Buttercup can practically feel the eagerness rolling off him. He opens the pages and finds what he assumes is poems. Poem and after poem scrwaled on the pages in beautiful calligraphy. And Buttercup can't understand a single word of it.

He doesn't know what to say. He feels frozen and his mind races over excuses for what to say. He could pretend he understands, but what is Geralt asks him about the poems? 

"Is it not good?" Geralt asks and Buttercup knows he can't lie to him anymore.

"No, no, it's good," he flicks through the pages again desperately hoping that he'll understand any of it.

"Then what's wrong?" Geralt frowns, "I can return it." He tries to take the book and Buttercup holds it to his chest. It really is a thoughtful gift - he loves poetry, would breathe it if he could, and who had ever heard of a bard who couldn't read?

"Um, well, see, the thing is," he stalls, "I err, well, can't really read?"

"What do you mean?"

Shame wells up in his chest and he stands up. It was always bound to come out. He'd never had any education, hadn't needed it. Even Kacper hadn't tried to teach him how to read because it was pointless. He was never bound for a life it was needed. 

"I mean I can't read, Geralt. Or write," he's never said the words out loud. He prepares for Geralt to laugh at him. All this time he's been travelling with someone pretending to be full of knowledge and here he was unable to even write his own name.

"But you love poetry, and you write your songs."

Buttercup swallows the sick rising in his throat as he finds his notebook full of crude drawings in place of lyrics. "See for yourself."

Amazingly, Geralt doesn't laugh or berate him. It must be a lie but when he finally makes himself look at Geralt all he sees is honesty. He begins to feel a little better about his lack of literacy skills. "Read to me?" he asks tentatively, not wanting the poetry book to go to waste.

* * *

“We have to help,” Buttercup argues.

“It’s not our responsibility,” Geralt shakes his head.

“Come one, please,” Buttercup begs, “It’s helping them just as much as monster-slaying is.”

Geralt sighs, “They don’t need our help to rebuild a church.”

Buttercup crosses his arms, “Yes, they do. They need all the help they can get. It’ll only take a few days.”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll stay and catch up with you on the road.”

Geralt’s jaw goes slack, “What?”

“You heard me. I’m staying. Go on, I’ll find you again.”

That’s how they end up staying in the town for an extra week. Buttercup had gotten to know the people whilst he was performing when Geralt went off on a three-day hunt. The church had been destroyed in a storm the month prior and now those who were sick had nowhere to go. They had been living in people’s houses but they couldn’t stay there forever.

Buttercup is almost reminded of Sarda. It’s been years since he stayed in a town for more than one night and he finds he misses the tight-knit communities. It’s better here than it ever was there, though. As he joins the crowd helping rebuild he realises that he isn’t on the outskirts anymore, and he belongs to somebody this time.

It takes three day to build the church, even Geralt pitches in. It takes another two to refurbish the inside and then those who are homeless or ill are welcomed back. Buttercup guides an old lady up the steps and she coughs at the effort. He clutches her hand until she is on a bed in the sick ward.

* * *

He’s been sick for a while now. Buttercup noticed around two weeks ago that he was finding it harder to breathe. He couldn’t walk alongside Roach for as long as he used to be able to. It feels like there’s a tight band around the bottom of his lungs and he can’t draw in a full breath.

Then he begins to wheeze. It’s only at night when he lies down that his airways begin to squeak. Geralt gives him a concerned glance and Buttercup mumbles a quiet, “Hay fever.”

Now he’s coughing. They come in short bursts at first, just a small tickle of the throat that could be easily cleared. Then they grew longer.

Buttercup coughs up a speck of blood and is glad that Geralt is on a hunt so he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t want him to worry. They already have enough stress living on the road. He promises that the next town they stop in he will find a healer and sort out this flu before it becomes a real problem.

Except they don’t stop in a town. None of them have any contracts and they are forced to keep riding. Buttercup holds in his coughs as long as possible until his lungs burn with the effort and he has to let go. Geralt notices he’s sick then.

They’re lying at camp and Buttercup feels like he’s dying from heat. It’s not the weather because he can feel a cool breeze on his sweaty skin that provides minimal comfort. He clears his throat again and again trying to push away the tickle collecting in his neck and moving deep into his lungs.

He can’t hold it back anymore. He lurches upright and coughs so hard he’s worried for a moment he might vomit. Thick globules of blood stain his hands and dribble down his chin.

It’s too late to hide it from Geralt who is gathering him in his arms and he gladly goes, seeking the comfort of being cradled.

“I think I’m sick,” he breathes. Geralt’s skin is so warm, too warm, but he wants to burrow deeper.

“No shit,” Geralt dislodges him and holds him upright so he can inspect him. Buttercup whines at the loss of comfort.

“Think ‘m gonna die,” he whispers, too weak to keep his eyes open. He feels like he’s going to pass out or throw up. At any second now he’s going to start coughing again, he can feel that deep tickle building.

Buttercup is half delirious as Geralt packs up camp and rides them hard and fast to the next town. He keeps his eyes shut focussing on breathing in and out. The bouncing of being on a horse does nothing for his lungs.

When he gets pushed onto a soft chair he sinks into the cushions. They’re not as comfy as Geralt’s arms but if he’s going to die then it’s a good substitute.

There’s a man he doesn’t know prodding at his neck and asking him to cough, and then he announces that it’s the plague.

Fear pools in his stomach and he turns to Geralt. He remembers when a Witcher came to town when he was a boy and he thought he was a knight or a prince, able to keep him safe. “Geralt?”

Geralt takes his hand and promises to fix it. Except, Buttercup can see the fear in his eyes. He’s spent nearly a decade at this side and he can tell that Geralt doesn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. It’s at that moment Buttercup realises that he will die. Soon.

It’s a shame, really, there were so many songs left for him to write.

* * *

The bed they’ve put him in is incredibly comfy. Buttercup thinks he might be able to sink into the mattress so deep they may as well just bury him here. It’s the softest place he’s slept in his entire life. Softer than the rug he slept on as a boy, softer than the pallets in the orphanage, softer than the hayloft and softer than the forest floor.

Geralt has been flitting about him for the past few days feeding him vile tasting medicines and strange herbs. They help soothe his throat and he will admit that he’s coughing less.

Buttercup just wishes Geralt would settle down and stay in bed with him. He’s too weak to leave the house, or the bed on most days, and he just wants to spend his last few days with him. Geralt keeps leaving though – to find a new remedy or just to storm about. He knows it’s because he can’t bare to see him like this; he’s not looked in a mirror but he doesn’t need to to know he must look like he’s on death’s doorstep.

They’ve been here for a few days when he feels well enough to walk around the room. His legs are numb and he wobbles as the blood rushes back into them but he steadies himself and leaves the bedroom. Geralt is gone and the house is silent as he makes his way through the long winding halls.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” a voice calls from behind him. Buttercup recognises the man as the doctor who looked him over when he first arrives.

“I feel well enough today,” he counters, continuing on his walk. The man catches up easily and walks by his side.

“Geralt tells me you’re a bard.”

Buttercup chews his lip, wondering why Geralt had spent his time talking to this stranger instead of him. “Yes.”

“We have a library, if you’d like to see.”

Buttercup doesn’t bother telling him he can’t read, a library sounds wonderful. Hopefully, some of the books have pictures.

The library is indeed massive and Buttercup finds out that the man isn’t a doctor but a druid with the strange name Mousesack. But he supposes Buttercup is a strange name, also. He picks books off the shelves Mousesack tells him is the poetry section. He hopes he can get Geralt to read them to him.

After the library, Mousesack takes him to the gardens. Buttercup feels the sun on his face and closes his eyes. He’s fairly sure this is the last time he will feels the pleasant burn of warmth on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry we can’t do more for your illness,” Mousesack speaks up, “Geralt is trying everything he can.”

“I know he is,” Buttercup doesn’t open his eyes, soaking in the feel and sounds of being outside while he still can. “There’s nothing more you can do. I can feel myself dying. I know what happens.”

“You’re oddly calm about it. Most patients I’ve seen in town scream and beg for a cure.”

Buttercup shrugs, blinking open his eyes as the sun briefly blinds him until they adjust. “I’m not afraid of dying. Never have been. I don’t know why but I don’t feel a sense of foreboding or terror.”

Mousesack huffs a laugh, “You’re very strange.”

Buttercup hums, “My mum died when I was a kid. Sickness too. But I wasn’t afraid of death then, either, I’ve just always accepted it.”

Mousesack laughs, “I wish we all had the same outlook as you.” Then he sobers, “Geralt is struggling. He doesn’t want to lose you.”

Buttercup sighs and looks to the sky, “I know. He doesn’t realise yet that even if I die, that doesn’t mean he’ll lose me.”

Mousesack nods slowly, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“You seem older,” Mousesack snorts.

* * *

Buttercup manages to cajole Geralt into reading poetry to him. It keeps him next to him and he doesn’t leave him to find new medicines that won't work.

Geralt’s voice washes over him and eases him into a serene calm. Poetry falling from his lips while his arms hold him close is all Buttercup could want in his final days.

“I love you,” he whispers, his throat scratchy but the coughs at bay for now.

“I love you, too,” Geralt whispers back, holding him tight. Buttercup can hear the thickness in his voice, the stubbornness. He hasn’t accepted it yet. He still believes he can fight the illness slowly taking him away.

* * *

Geralt is getting worse. With every poem he reads, Buttercup can hear his voice get more strained and feel his muscles get more tense. His hands begin to shake and Buttercup takes them in his to steady them.

“Talk to me,” he begs. Geralt has been shutting him out. He knows why but he can’t bare the thought that his last few days will be spent like this.

“You’ve accepted it,” Geralt grits out and Buttercup understands what’s bothering him. It must be hard to fight for someone who won’t fight for themselves.

“And you haven’t,” he states the obvious. Perhaps he should fight more, rage against the burning in his lungs and scream at destiny and thrash against the inevitable. But he’s been fighting since he was born for every scrap he ever received – he doesn’t want the last thing he does to be a fight for life he will lose.

Buttercup shifts them so that Geralt is cradled in his arms with his head against his chest. They haven’t laid like this since he got sick. It was Geralt holding him close and protecting him from the world when the thing killing him was inside.

“Won’t ever accept it,” Geralt mumbles, sounding impossibly young. Buttercup forgets how young Geralt really is. Witchers live for centuries but Geralt is still only about sixty, he still has a long life ahead of him.

It’s Geralt who needs protecting now. He doesn’t handle loss well, Buttercup knows, remembering a few years ago when the guilt he felt over loving someone he had lost had almost consumed him. Buttercup wishes he could protect him from loss, wishes he could promise he won’t leave him. It would be a lie if he did.

“You have to, my love. You can’t stop it, and I can’t fight it.”

Geralt grips him even tighter, “No.”

It hurts to tell the truth but it will hurt less than lies.

His lungs begin to protest all the talking and he coughs hard. His lungs sting and his eyes water with the force of the hacking. He can feel blood flying out of his mouth and clogging his throat. It only makes him cough harder and harder until he nearly blacks out.

When he stops Geralt is staring at the blood soaked sheets. “I’ll get you some fresh linens,” he says distantly, not looking at him.

“Geralt,” Buttercup reaches him but Geralt is already walking away and slamming the door behind him. He collapses back against the pillows and begins to sob. Not for the fact that he will die but for the fact that Geralt can barely look at him.

A maid comes by a while later and changes the sheets. Not long after he falls into a fitful sleep.

* * *

_“It’s not worth it,” Geralt is walking away from him but he looks strange, his hair is cropped short and he looks younger._

_“It is worth it!” He hears a voice and realises it’s his own. “You save their life and for what?”_

_“It’s the life,” Geralt argues._

_Buttercup wants to ask what’s going on but instead he says, “It shouldn’t be.”_

_“You’re spoiling me,” Geralt smiles eating a pastry. They’re in a busy town that looks familiar but Buttercup has never been to. Somehow he knows it’s a northern city, it’s how he always imagined them to look like._

_“You deserve to be spoiled,” he says. The words fall easily from his mouth. It’s all so familiar._

_“And you can detect magic?”_

_Geralt is lying on a bed in front of him with black veins stemming from a wound. That wasn’t right. That was where he had a scar. It had been there when he met him._

_“I can.”_

_Buttercup looks around the shop. He was just in a town centre he doesn’t know how he got here. And at the same time, he knows how he got here, because Geralt had come back to the inn injured and he had dragged him to a healer. How does he know that? This never happened._

_“Can you detect curses?”_

_Geralt begins to wake and Buttercup is glad he can finally ask him what’s happening._

* * *

“Geralt!” he calls when he wakes with a start, the images of the dream already fading into something he can’t quite remember.

“I’m right here,” Geralt is at his side holding his hand. The sadness in his eyes is still there but it’s lessened. He looks him in the eye and Buttercup knows that he has finally come to terms with what is going to happen.

He blinks, the image of Geralt with black veins retreating from his mind. “You were-”

“It was just a dream. I’m here now.”

It hadn’t felt like a dream, it felt real. He can’t think on it further because he starts coughing again. This time worse than all the times before. He struggles for breath and his back hurts from the force of it all. He drifts in and out of sleep, fever stealing all his cognitive thoughts.

The sheets are soaking wet and he feels disgusting. He can feel his lungs quivering with each breath. He wants it to be over already.

“Thank you,” he breathes, using the last of his strength to say his goodbyes. He keeps his eyes focussed on Geralt, he is the last thing he wants to see. “You saved my life.”

“No, you’re dying. I’ve not saved your life.”

“I don’t mean now,” Buttercup smiles weakly, “Back then, when you let me follow you.” It feels like a lifetime ago when he was last in Sarda, struggling to find purpose. “I was a nobody. Doomed to stay in that town. Then you came along, my knight in shining armour. You saved me.”

“I’m no knight,” Geralt huffs.

“I suppose not,” he’s better than a knight, Buttercup thinks. “But you’re still my hero.”

“Cheesy.”

He manages to make Geralt laugh, even though it’s small. It’s the best sound he’s ever heard. Not even the greatest song in the world could compete.

“You love me.”

“I do. Gods, I love you so much,” and he isn’t smiling anymore and tears stream down his face. He’s never really seen Geralt cry before and he hates it. He reaches out and wipes away the tears.

“I love you more. Don’t cry, love. You gave me the best life. And I’m happy that the last thing I’ll see before I die is you.”

Geralt gets in bed beside him. Buttercup is burning up but he still snuggles against him. The one thing he hates about dying is the knowledge that he will never touch Geralt again. He will never hear his laugh, see his smiles or feel his kisses.

It’s hard to stay away when his lungs and his head hurt so much. He can’t tell whether he’s awake or asleep. Buttercup holds on for as long as he can. He can feel his life slowly draining away.

Buttercup feels scared for a moment. Scared that he won’t come back, which is odd because why would he? It’s only a very brief moment before something deep within him reassures him this is not the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone whos commented so far your reviews mean the world to me! <3


	7. i choose you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so fun to write but also be prepared by a lot of Plot happens in this one
> 
> for this picture Joey Batey in Mount Pleasant <3

Geralt sits silently as he drinks his ale and eats his first meal in three days. This village is thankfully somewhat accommodating of Witchers and has let him stay, even if the bread he has been given is on the stale side. A bard is setting up across the room. He tends to avoid bards and music and all the painful reminders it brings, but he’s exhausted and just hopes that the bard is good.

The bard finally begins his set and Geralt thinks he might be hallucinating.

His voice is the same, warm and loud and happy. He even has a lute. What the fuck, is all he can think.

Geralt wants to throw up because he still has Buttercup’s sickly dying face in his mind and yet here he is dancing and singing and healthy as ever. His hair is longer than Dandelion’s by a small amount, but he lets it hang freely instead of oiling it back. He’s more muscular than Buttercup had ever been, clearly raised with better circumstances, but he still has stubble on his face. Geralt wants to leave. There are a million questions flying through his head. But it will only draw attention to himself, he shrinks down in his seat hoping he won’t notice him.

Perhaps it was dark magic. A curse. Or it truly was a doppler this time. But something inside Geralt tells him it’s none of those things. It’s been some twenty years since Buttercup died, and this version of him looks to be of that age.

When he finishes his set, he orders an ale and lingers at the bar. Geralt manages to calm his thoughts and stare resolutely at his half-eaten plate, appetite lost.

“Not hungry?”

He looks up and, of course, the bard is sat right across from him.

“No.”

“Mind if I?” the bard asks, hand half hovering over Geralt’s plate. Geralt nods and he eagerly steals the half-eaten roll of bread and bites into it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Geralt subtly scents the air but the man before him is definitely human despite the low hum of his medallion. The same vibrating hum he had always felt with Dandelion and Buttercup – he hadn’t realised why before but he’s starting to now.

Geralt doesn’t just have a type, or rather he does, and it is this one man who can’t stay dead.

“Sorry to steal your food, haven’t eaten in a while,” the bard smiles sheepishly in an all too familiar way.

A sense of confused panic is followed by an overwhelming calm sense of relief. He really had no clue what had caused this but it clicked that he was looking at Dandelion again. Looking at Buttercup again.

Whoever he was now, he was still him, and Geralt’s mouth ran dry at the sight of the man chattering and shamelessly stealing his food in front of him. He didn’t dare risk asking him if he remembered him. Didn’t dare think of finding out a way to undo whatever this was.

Life had given him another chance and he was going to take it and run.

“You’re quiet, aren’t you?” the bard speaks again, helping himself to more of Geralt’s food.

There’s no recognition in his eyes. Geralt wonders if he’s pissed off any sorcerers in his time that would have seen fit to curse him with a love that dies and returns to him endlessly with no recollection.

“Hmm.” You would be quiet too, Geralt thinks, if you had just realised what he had.

“Very well, I’m Julian,” he pauses and looks at Geralt, “And you are?”

Geralt very much knows that he should leave, knows he shouldn’t get into this again. Unfortunately, he finds himself answering before he can stop himself. “Geralt.”

* * *

Geralt knows the scent of arousal on him well enough by now. He didn’t need to to know what Julian was thinking. He’s spent two decades with his past selves to read it across his face.

The large blue eyes that dance with every movement. The way he sticks his tongue out and slowly draws it back to bite his lip as he hangs off Geralt’s every word. The way he leans forward seeking touch even across the bar table.

Geralt can see it all so clearly. He’s trying to keep the conversation casual while he figures out how in the hell he’s supposed to be handling this situation. Julian has him talking about monster facts for a song he wants to write and Geralt can’t even hear the words coming from his mouth with the sound of his racing thoughts.

He’s so caught up in the revelation that the man sat in front of him is back from the dead. Everything he had wished for had come true in some non-descript tavern.

It really shouldn’t surprise him that Julian’s lips are crashing into his as they stumble up the stairs to the room he rented.

He’s drunk on the man in front of him. Geralt wants to soak up as much as he can whilst he has the time because this might be a dream if he thinks too hard about it. He can’t think at all.

Nothing feels more right than having him back in his arms.

The heat of their kisses slow for a moment and Geralt is momentarily grounded. He stares in wonderment at Julian. He looks so young. He had forgotten what he looked like at this age.

A fresh start, he reasons. This time he won’t fuck it all up. He’ll be extra vigilant.

Julian leans in to capture his lips again and all thought is lost to the night.

* * *

It’s all too easy to fall in love with Julian.

Their first night had been fuelled by passion – Julian by pure attraction and Geralt by his feelings. But, as with Buttercup, Julian is different from who he had been.

It takes a few weeks for Geralt to notice that Julian is more guarded with his feelings than he lets on. At first, he had been so much like Buttercup, his heart on his sleeve at all times whether he was charming an audience or following Geralt from town to town. Then he had started to notice the brief moments when he would be more withdrawn.

Geralt learns that Julian puts on the act of happy go lucky bard. He keeps his true thoughts reserved and pulls out the showy performance. Slowly, he lets Geralt see more of his true self.

He doesn’t know why this version of him had followed him again. Dandelion had been escaping his title, Buttercup had been escaping his town. Julian, on the surface, is escaping from nothing.

Julian makes himself at home anywhere with anyone, it’s hard to spot the truth.

Geralt understands the cracks he sees in Julian’s façade when he sees his back for the first time. It’s surprising it’s taken this long considering how many times they’ve already fallen into bed together. Looking back, Julian had always made sure to angle his back away from sight.

Julian is stepping out of the bath and Geralt has come back to the room a little early, just in time to see the thick lines that criss-cross the other man's back.

“Geralt!” Julian spins around, instantly putting his back out of sight. There’s panic in his eyes, a wild look.

Geralt puts his hands up calmingly, “It’s alright. But surely you know I don’t care about scars. It would be hypocritical.”

Julian calms slightly, “You weren’t meant to see.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Geralt promises, handing Julian a towel so he can cover himself properly.

After he dresses, they crawl into bed and Geralt holds him tighter than usual. “You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”

Julian is silent for such a long time Geralt thinks he won’t respond until he whispers, “It was my father.”

Geralt swallows thickly, stopping himself from storming through the Continent to find whatever bastard had ever laid his hands on Julian. He points to a scar on his chest, “This one was a kikimora,” then to one on his ribs, “This was a drowner.”

One by one he talks Julian through each of his scars until he relaxes properly. He doesn’t hide his back from him after that. And he doesn’t put on his fake façade around him either.

* * *

“Have you ever been in love?” Julian asks quietly, tracing his fingers lightly along Geralt’s scars in the candlelight.

Geralt sighs looking down at the face of his past loves, so different and yet fundamentally the same, “Yes. Have you?”

Julian shrugs, “No, fleeting interests, never love. Until you.”

Geralt smiles softly and presses a kiss to Julian’s head, and smooths down his messy long hair.

“Tell me about them?”

“Are you sure?” Geralt has spent most of his time avoiding humans but he knows that talk of past lovers is rarely a welcomed topic.

Julian nods, “I want to know everything about you.”

Geralt wets his lips and is quiet while he decides where to start. “When I was young, only a few years out of Kaer Morhen, I met someone.”

“Who?”

“A lord. He held lands up in Kaedwen. He used to spend the winter there and travel with me in summer.”

Julian shifts so he can look up at him, “A taste for nobility then, have you?” he says with a cheeky grin.

Geralt snorts, “Not especially. After him was a commoner.”

Julian hums, “Any women?”

Geralt shakes his head, “Most women are scared of Witchers, or are kept away from us by fathers and husbands. There have been whores but I didn’t feel anything for them.”

“I’ve only ever been with you,” Julian admits.

“Really?” That’s new, he knew Dandelion and Buttercup had been with others before him and Julian was slightly older than Buttercup when they first met.

Julian blushes, “Not for lack of wanting, I just never could.”

“Why?”

Julian licks his lips, “I was engaged at a very young age. Not of my own doing, my family just wanted better status. I could have chased others but it felt wrong to do that to her.”

“Aren’t you engaged anymore?”

“No, I ran away to become a bard,” Julian laughs, tilting up and capturing Geralt in a deep kiss.

* * *

Geralt wonders if Julian remembers his past lives. He wonders if Buttercup ever did.

He doubts it, but he wishes he did. Sometimes he nearly slips up and says something that reveals too much. He’ll know a habit of Julian’s that has stayed consistent throughout, like his favourite soap being chamomile, even if he hasn’t told him yet.

It’s killing him that Julian doesn’t know. Now that he knows he feels like he’s bursting at the seams with information. It feels wrong to withhold it. It was Julian’s life, he deserved to know.

Fear clouds his mind whenever he works up the courage to bring it up. What if Julian leaves? What if he doesn’t forgive him for not telling him already? What if he thinks his feelings are based on a love that already existed and not a new love, specially catered to him? The terror of losing him again, in whatever way, is enough to keep his lips sealed.

* * *

Geralt trudges into the inn just after sunset. Julian is already playing a song for the crowd and Geralt quietly orders an ale and slips into the table tucked away in the corner. The song Julian is singing is a soft love song. The patrons seems to enjoy it from the smiles they hold as they admire him and the decent amount of coins tossed into his open lute case.

_I don't know how your brain works so well_

_and if_ _I_ _did,_ _I_ _might explode  
Even if could, I don't think that I would _

_want to decipher your series of codes  
A lifetime of trouble but how could I not love you_

_Yeah, we humans we crave a certain certainly_

_but no mystery_ _e_ _ver got old_

_A lifetime of troubles but how could I not love you  
A lifetime of troubles but how could I not love you_

Julian had written it for him a month ago when they were camped out under the stars. He knows Julian has seen him enter because of the small smile that he casts to him as he sings the last two lines.

The crowd applauds and sends even more coins his way. Julian thanks them graciously and promises to sing for them later in the night. He packs away his lute and shoves the coins in his pocket. Before he meets Geralt he orders them dinner from the barmaid.

“How did the hunt go?” he asks, sliding into the seat next to Geralt and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Fine,” Geralt shrugs and turns his head to catch Julian’s lips in a kiss before he has time to move away. “It was easy.”

“Always so stingy on the details,” Julian shakes his head with a laugh.

Geralt smirks. The barmaid drops two plates in front of them and scurries off. Geralt begins to pick at the food when another man steps up to the table.

“Your highness?”

The man is dressed in a fancy doublet and is shorter than Geralt. He seems to belong to the small crowd of nobles and knights that have just entered the tavern. Geralt doesn’t have time for nobles and their games right now. He just wants to finish his food in peace, listen to Julian perform and go to bed.

“No, I’m a Witcher,” he dismisses and doesn’t spare him another glance.

“Forgive me, sir. But I didn’t mean you.”

Geralt snaps his head up at that and looks between the man and Julian. Julian is tense next to him in a way he’s never seen. Uncomfortable and like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Ah, Lord Piotr. A pleasure to see you here,” Julian says cordially.

Geralt has no clue what the fuck is happening.

“Your father has been very worried these past few months,” Piotr says with a frown on his face. He’s older than Julian by a few decades and his disapproval is clear on his face. “He sent out search parties.”

“Is that so?” Julian nods slowly. He stands and rounds the table and grabs Piotr by the arm to lead him away from the table.

Geralt can’t hear what they’re saying. Julian was smart enough to walk just outside of his enhanced hearing range. He can still see them though, he continues eating his meal so he doesn’t look like he’s obviously spying on them. Julian’s face is pulling into a frown. He nods at Piotr and gives the man a tight smile.

Piotr bows to Julian and returns to his entourage on the other side of the tavern. Julian takes a moment before he’s walking back and sliding in next to Geralt as if nothing is happening.

“Care to tell me what just happened, _your highness_?”

“Right. So, this is awkward.” Julian chuckles nervously. “I’m not a bard?”

“What?”

Julian gulps. “I mean I am. But I’m also a prince?”

Geralt stops chewing on his bread and stares at the man in front of him. “Come again?”

“A prince?”

“Is that a question?” Geralt quirks an eyebrow.

Julian’s eyes go wide and shakes his head. “No, it’s a fact. I’m a prince. Of Temeria. I just don’t really find it all that fun.”

Geralt is silent. He has no idea what to say in response. The man who he has been travelling with for several months is nobility. Royal. And not just to some two-penny kingdom. Temeria is a very large and influential kingdom.

“It’s all backstabbing and meetings and taxes.” Julian scrunches his nose in displeasure. “I was travelling back home when I sort of maybe snuck away. Just for a day. I just wanted to pretend I was normal for once in my life. And it just so happened that you were also in that tavern and you were a lot more interesting than going home.”

Geralt tilts his head to the side whilst Julian rambles his explanation. He knows he should feel betrayed at this new knowledge. But the way Julian looks incredibly worried that Geralt might run him through with his sword any second lets him know it wasn’t malicious.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Julian licks his lips nervously and sags into his seat. “I don’t know. You were the only person who didn’t see me as Prince Julian, son of King Cedric, heir to the throne of Temeria,” he says his title with sarcastic grandiose. “I was just Julian, humble bard. I didn’t have to pretend to be someone.”

Geralt rolls his eyes fondly, “You’re still just Julian to me.”

Julian meets his eyes and smiles hopefully, “Really?”

“Of course.”

Julian breaks into his signature large smile, spreads his arms in glee and claps them together, “Excellent. Then will you come with me to court?”

Geralt chokes on the ale he just took a sip of, “What?”

“Well, I have to pop back. For a bit. There’s been a whole kafuffle in my absence. And I’d hate to be parted from you. Please come?”

Geralt knows it’s useless protesting. The next morning they are packed up and following a small royal escort convoy across the country. Temeria is close by, thank the gods, because Geralt is already itching to leave.

* * *

Geralt looks at the ridiculously ornate room he has been provided with. Every surface is covered with something gold or rich looking. It’s an overwhelmingly arrogant display of wealth and he doesn’t understand how Julian grew up in a place like this and turned out the way he did.

Julian paces the length of the room over and over while Geralt sharpens his swords. There’ll be no fight and his swords are already sharp but the motion soothes him. It’s not enough to completely bottle up the question that tumbles out of his mouth.

“When you said you were engaged, you still are, aren’t you?” he doesn’t look at Julian but he can hear the hitch in his breath.

“Technically,” Julian admits and Geralt feels like he’s been stabbed. “It’s a betrothal. Neither of us had any say in the matter. We were to be wed when she turned eighteen. She was two years younger than me. And when I was nearly twenty and it was getting closer to the time I ran away. I didn’t want this life.”

“It’s still yours,” Geralt says bitterly. “You’re still a prince engaged to a princess.”

“It’s not what I want. It’s not real to me.”

“It’s real to me,” Geralt grits his teeth, “Was I just your whore?” He didn’t realise that was what he had feared this whole time since he found out the truth. There was no way a Witcher was permanent fixation in a prince’s life.

“Geralt, of course not,” Julian comes and sits next to him. “I love you. It’s honest and true. You could never be a whore. You’re the only person I’ve ever even been with for Melitele’s sake!”

Geralt scoffs and turns to face him, “And what made you abandon your oath of fidelity for me? When you’ve had every person at your whim?”

Julian reaches for his hand but he pulls it away. The scent of sadness rolls of Julian and Geralt forces himself not to care.

“Anyone I liked here was based on something fleeting. A smile, a laugh, a joke. Everyone already hated that I was terrible at being heir to the throne. Being faithful to Clarissa was the one thing I could do right,” Julian explains.

 _Clarissa._ Geralt wishes he didn’t know her name. Wishes that jealous and selfish part of his brain didn’t want to find out everything he could about this Clarissa and make sure she never married Julian.

“Until you, my love,” Julian breathes softly.

Geralt looks up and sees the tears welling in his eyes. “Why?”

Julian shrugs helplessly, “I don’t know. I wanted you from the moment I saw you. It wasn’t because of any superficial thing, not to say you aren’t beautiful, but part of me just knew something. That you were meant to be something to me.”

Geralt shakes his head slowly, “How can you be sure?”

“Because when I saw you in that tavern there was nothing that could have stopped me from talking to you. There were plenty of people there I could have spent a night with if I was just looking for that.”

“Weren’t you?”

“Honestly? No,” Julian laughs. “I was only planning to run away for a day or two. And then I saw you.”

Geralt runs a hand through his hair. “This Clarissa, is she here?”

“Yes,” Julian admits, barely above a whisper. Geralt tightens his grip on his sword handle until his knuckles go white.

“I think you should go,” Geralt looks away.

He hears Julian choke a sob and then leave.

Geralt is alone with his thoughts for a long time. What irony, to get the one man he has loved over and over again back only for him to be taken away like this. This was what he deserved, he supposed, it was his fault that Dandelion and Buttercup had died. Now he was finally being served justice for letting that happen.

Destiny or whatever bullshit that thought his life was their personal entertainment sure liked to give him something good just to rip it away again.

His brooding is interrupted an hour later by the door slamming open and Julian storming in. “I broke off the engagement.”

“What?”

“I broke it off,” Julian repeats, “I’m in a load of shit but it’s done. I don’t want all this, Geralt. I want you. Only you.”

“You broke it off?” Geralt repeats, walking towards Julian.

Julian nods, “If you don’t want to take me back, I understand-”

Geralt cuts him off with a deep searing kiss. Julian melts at his touch and Geralt walks them back until his legs hit the bed and they fall onto the mattress. They have a couple of hours until they are expected for dinner to make use of.

* * *

Geralt shuffles awkwardly in the too-tight doublet Julian had given him. The fabric is finely woven and brightly coloured and he looks like an idiot. Well, Julian had said he looked amazing but a Witcher wasn’t supposed to wear clothes like this.

The door opens softly and Julian awkwardly shuffles in. He’s wearing a blue doublet with the pattern of the Temerian flag subtly embroidered on it. On top of his head rests a crown adorned with gemstones.

He looks regal. Geralt wonders how he hadn’t realised sooner that he wasn’t just from a rich family.

“Are you ready?” Julian asks softly.

“As I’ll ever be.”

They walk arm in arm to the main hall, Geralt can practically hear Julian’s heartbeat when they enter through the door and the whole court stops to look at them. Julian straightens his back and walks proudly to the front, Geralt at his side glaring at anyone who dares to look at them the wrong way.

A tall and thin man stands in front of the head table, the King, and beside him Queen Berengaria and Prince Griffin.

“Father,” Julian greets and bows when they reach them. Geralt remains upright, he is not one his subjects. “Thank you for welcoming me back home.”

Geralt can hear the blatant lie but it appeases those listening.

“Julian. We were ever so worried about you,” King Cedric puts on a fake smile and faces the court, “My son has returned to his rightful place as prince and heir. Let us rejoice!”

The court cheers and then the kitchen servants begin to bring everyone dinner. Julian leads him to the high table where he sits to the right of his father and Geralt next to him.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cedric grits out, keeping his face impassive. Geralt can only hear him because of his enhanced hearing.

Julian grabs his hand under the table and Geralt squeezes it reassuringly. “What I’ve always wanted to do.”

Cedric’s knuckles go white around the knife he is using to cut his meat. Geralt tenses, ready to step in if the King decides to do something rash and stab his son. He’s seen the scars that line Julian’s back and now he's next to the man they originated from.

“You have a duty. You can’t ignore it.”

Julian doesn’t respond and takes a long sip of wine. For all that Julian looks the part of a prince, he also looks incredibly out of place. Geralt wants to take him away right this second, put him on Roach and ride as far away as possible. But he can’t.

It’s not his choice. Julian chose to come back and Geralt can't force him to leave, even if he wants to. He chews slowly on the food wondering if this means that Julian will stay here now. He’s had his fun pretending to be a bard but he can’t ignore his title forever. Some day he will have to leave Geralt behind and serve his kingdom.

Perhaps it would be best if he left sooner rather than later.

They eat the rest of their meals in silence and people begin to congregate on the dance hall. The band begins to switch from calm background music to pieces people can dance to.

Julian stands, the chair squeaking loudly on the floor garnering the attention of those sat nearby. He turns to Geralt and holds out his hand, “May I have this dance?”

Geralt wants to laugh at the formality of it, and he can tell Julian wants to as well by the glint in his eye. He takes his hand and stand and lets himself be led onto the dancefloor. Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead dancing, and certainly not being the one to follow. But he gets a kick out of seeing all the scandalised faces of the courtiers as they watch them and give them a wide berth on the dancefloor.

The best part is seeing how brave Julian is being. It was frowned upon for a prince to enjoy male company, much less that of a Witcher, and here Julian was – head held high and daring anyone to say something.

It’s a slow dance at first, keeping a respectable gap between them. Except Geralt hates everyone here so he tugs Julian closer until they are chest to chest. He feels Julian’s hot breath against his ear and the snicker he lets out as audible gasps are heard all around.

“Sorry for bringing you here,” Julian whispers.

Geralt glances at Cedric still sat at the high table, the anger rolling off him in waves. Beside him, the Queen pointedly not watching the scene and Julian’s brother glaring daggers at him. He smirks, “Worth it.”

Eventually, couples begin to join the dance floor again. They still avoid dancing near them but they blend into the crowd. Geralt doesn’t know how much time passes as they dance slowly through the night. He doesn’t care about how much he hates court and royalty; he can feel Julian’s heart against his own chest and knows that he’s home wherever they go.

“Eleven eleven,” Julian says softly, motioning with his head to the grand clock across the hall. “Make a wish.”

Geralt holds him a little tighter and wishes not to lose him this time.

He feels Julian smile against the crook of his neck and press a small secretive kiss to the skin there, “Hope it was a good one.”

“It was,” Geralt whispers, tilting his head and capturing Julian’s lips in a kiss for everyone to see.

Their fun must come to an end some time and that time is midnight. The grand clock rings out signalling the end of the dance. The musicians fade out and begin to pack up.

King Cedric stands for the first time that evening; it was custom for the King to dance at occasions like this but he has spent the whole time seething. Much to Geralt’s delight.

He makes his way in front of the table and the Queen and Griffin move from the dance floor to join him. They at least had pretended not to care about him and Julian. The hall silences and turns to look at him.

Geralt and Julian part but he keeps him close to his side. He can hear Julian’s purposefully measured breathing and the scent of fear. He’s never smelled fear on Julian before, it’s not the onslaught bitterness of panic but an undertone of something sickly which tells him the fear is not an immediate reaction but deep-rooted.

“Thank you, everyone, for attending Prince Julian’s welcome back feast. My son has returned safe and healthy. He will now return to his position of duty,” Cedric calls out with a smirk.

Geralt’s blood runs cold and he wishes he hadn’t left his swords in the bedroom.

“Come now, Julian,” Cedric beckons, waving his hand to the empty space next to him, “Take your place.”

Julian steps forward and releases Geralt’s hand. He swallows down the bile that rises to his throat watching Julian choose his birthright over him. The crowd’s applause is deafening and Geralt feels like he’s drowning.

That is, until a loud and clear voice cuts through the crowd.

“No,” Julian states, stopping just before the steps that lead up to where his family stands.

The crowd hushes and King Cedric’s smirk sours. “Come now, don’t be silly.”

“No,” Julian states again, “I won’t.”

“Julian,” the Queen hisses, “What are you doing?”

King Cedric glares, “Don’t make me beat you, boy.”

Julian straightens his back, “I’d like to see you try.”

Geralt takes a step forward and Julian looks over his shoulder at the noise. A small smile quirks at his lips and he resolves his face into a determined expression. He watches as Julian turns down his family for him. Turn down his father, his King, for him.

“You can’t control me, father.”

“It’s your duty, you fool!” Cedric explodes and even the onlookers flinch back at the words. The King looks ready to beat his son and Geralt takes another step forward ready to intervene.

Julian walks backwards until he's in line with him and takes his hand again. Geralt squeezes it as they both stare down the royal family.

“I’m following Geralt. I’m leaving again tonight. Don’t try to stop me.”

They turn on their heels and walk the length of the hall. It seems impossibly long. They’re halfway to the door when Geralt hears stomping behind them. He swivels and catches Cedric’s arm before he can hit Julian.

He towers over the man like this. He growls and pushes his back, digging his hands into his arm and relishing the sharp scent of fear coming from the man. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

It’s Julian who puts a hand on his back and makes him let go of the King. “I’ll return during winter. Witchers return home for those months, as shall I. In the summer I will leave again,” he bargains.

Cedric looks like he wants to argue but with one sharp look from Geralt he agrees with a hasty nod.

“Good,” Julian nods once then walks away. Geralt happily follows.

* * *

Geralt hisses as Julian stitches up a wound on his shoulder.

“Baby,” Julian teases and Geralt shoots a glare over his shoulder. Julian laughs and darts forward to peck his lips.

Geralt hums with a pleased smile and turns back around as Julian finishes the stitches. He feels the tight pull of the thread being pulled tight and tied off, and then he has a lap full of the prince.

“Miss me?” he smirks.

Julian glares, “You were gone for two days.” He leans down to kiss along the side of Geralt’s face and then down his neck and to his collarbone. “You owe me this.”

“I’m injured,” Geralt protests half-heartedly, loving every second of attention and every soft kiss.

“I’ll be careful,” Julian winks, thumb brushing Geralt’s jaw tenderly before pulling him up and to the bed.

* * *

Geralt stares down at the envelope baring the Temerian royal family seal and knows that his life is about to change. Cedric had thankfully accepted their arrangement. While Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen each year, Julian returns to Temeria. They’ve never been contacted in the middle of summer before, which means something is going to happen.

He prays it’s something minor, an appearance required at a banquet or something of the like. Geralt is too logical of a man to let himself believe that. Julian doesn’t open the envelope straight away; they both know the contents bare bad news for them.

Julian opens the letter and pauses then silently hands over the parchment.

_Julian,_

_Temeria is at war. You are to come home at once and fulfil your duty._

_King Cedric_

Geralt reads the letter over and over again. Julian and war are not two words that correspond in his head. This was so much worse than he had thought of. A war put Julian’s life in danger. He couldn’t lose him again.

The silence stretches.

“A war. Are you going?” Geralt asks in an even voice, not betraying his thoughts.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to,” he says lightly, knowing it was a lie.

Julian nods at his claim, “Temeria has one of the best armies. They’ll be able to defend themselves.”

Geralt doesn’t kid himself into thinking that meant anything. Julian was leaving for war. A part of him still hoped he would stay with him, run away yet again.

* * *

“I have to go back,” his voice is quiet and muffled against where it lies on Geralt’s bare chest.

Geralt sighs. He knew this was coming. As much as he knew Julian loved him he knew he wouldn’t abandon his people in their time of need. “I know,” He whispers back, tightening his arms around him. “When will you leave?”

“In the morning.” Julian looks up at him with his bright blue eyes that make Geralt’s heart flutter. “It’s a long ride to Temeria.”

Geralt nods, “I understand.” He brushes a long strand of hair behind Julian’s ear and cups his cheek softly as he captures his lips in a kiss. He understands. He really does. Julian is a prince and there is no way he could follow Geralt galivanting across the Continent when his kingdom is marching to war. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“You could come with me. Fight by my side.”

“I don’t choose sides in wars between humans.”

Julian quirks a smile, “I know. But I choose you. I’ll miss you terribly.”

“I choose you, too. But I must follow the Path. And you must follow yours,” Geralt hates the words spilling from his mouth. He wants to tell him to stay with him. Tell him he loves him too much to let him go. Tell him his family’s war isn’t something worth dying over. But that would be selfish of him.

Julian sighs heavily and begins to hum a soft melody.

“Working on a new song?”

“Yeah. Just a little something I thought of,” he keeps humming, repeating the melody and switching the octaves of notes until he settles on the one he likes.

“Care to share the lyrics?” Geralt runs his fingertips down Julian’s back. He savours the soft touch of his skin and the curve of his lower back. The dip of his spine. The goosebumps he raised under his touch.

Julian smirks, “Not yet. I’ll sing it for you when I find you again.”

“You’d better.”

* * *

The next morning Geralt watches Julian ride away. With every metre of distance he puts between them he slips away from being his lover and steps closer to being Prince Julian heir to the Temerian throne.

He leads Roach in the opposite direction. The silence is deafening. At least he still has Roach.

In the next town he stops at, there is already talk of war brewing. Geralt hadn’t paid it any attention before; but that was before Julian was involved. With each word he hears the pit in his stomach refuses to move.

“Bastard elves,” a villager spits at the floor. “Should’ve done something about them sooner.”

The other villagers around him all grumble their agreements. “Good thing Cintra and Temeria are finally doing something about it.”

Julian was going to fight the elves? The letter he had received had certainly said nothing about _why_ his father was marching to war. Julian had never expressed anything against elves but he’d never said anything for them either.

Elves were treated just as bad as Witchers these days and Geralt knew it was bullshit. There was no stopping Julian now. Even if he rode after him he’d be too far ahead for him to catch up. Julian isn’t going to defend his kingdom against an advancing enemy but is going to lead the slaughter of innocents.

Geralt walks past the group of elf-haters and Roach huffs at him when he leads her into the barn. “I’m sorry I don’t have any treats for you.”

Roach stomps her feet angrily. He strokes her side softly as he begins to take off the saddlebags. She steps forward away from him. Then back when he moves. “We can’t go after him.”

She huffs and butts her head against his chest. “I don’t get involved. You know that. Julian can make his own decisions.”

Roach snorts and finally lets him take off her saddle. “Don’t worry, girl. He’ll be okay.”

* * *

A few months pass and there’s still no sign of Julian. Talk of war only grows as reports from the West tell tales of slaughter. Geralt refrains from asking people he hears talking about it if they’ve heard anything of the Prince of Temeria. He reasons with himself that no news is good news, even if it doesn’t stop the feeling that something is wrong.

Each painstakingly long week brings more news of the war efforts. The forces are gaining on eastern elf settlements. The forces have been slowed by crossing the Mahakam mountains. The forces are making their way across Aedirn.

All too soon it’s been a year since he’s seen Julian. The slaughter of elves is the talk of the Continent and Geralt wonders just how much Julian is contributing.

Winter has been and gone, and he’s been on the Path for nearly two months when he decides against it. He’s used to travelling alone but never while knowing that Julian was out there in danger.

Geralt turns back to Kaer Morhen and plans on staying there until this whole war blows over and he can find Julian again. The trip is shorter than expected but he hasn’t been this determined in months.

When he pushes through the gates, Vesemir is leading a sword training class and gives him a double-take. He leaves a set of instructions and jogs over to Geralt.

“And what exactly are you doing here?”

“Why, is it not allowed?” Geralt huffs, setting up Roach in the stables. They’re mostly empty and he wonders what the rest of the keep will feel like with the absence of his fellow Witchers taking up all the space.

Vesemir crosses his arms over his chest, “This isn’t the Path, Geralt.”

“And that’s why you’re still here?” Geralt raises an eyebrow, his stomach jolting with adrenaline at addressing a superior like that; but he’s not a boy anymore and they can’t take the cane to him, so he maintains his stance.

“I stay here to teach, you know that.”

“That’s what I’m doing here,” Geralt answers easily.

Vesemir takes one look at him and breaks out in a long and loud laugh. Geralt is sure he hasn’t ever heard him laugh before and it startles him. For one, because laughing suits Vesemir, which is a strange thing for a man he has come to know for his impassiveness. Secondly, because this means that Vesemir must no longer see him as a boy but as his equal.

“No, really, what are you doing here?” Vesemir asks when he’s recovered, a half-smile still on his face.

“Does it matter?”

Vesemir huffs, “Another one of your love affairs?”

Geralt feigns innocence, “What?”

Vesemir rolls his eyes, “You boys thought you could hide anything from me?” Geralt has no comeback and Vesemir rolls his eyes, “Let’s go. If you’re here then you do have to teach and make yourself useful. Can’t have you moping around all summer. Unless you want to work in the kitchens?”

That’s how Geralt finds himself working as a swordmaster alongside Vesemir and two other tutors. He couldn’t bring himself to help anywhere else, even with his extensive knowledge and extra mutations. He’s been able to keep a distance from the boys in all his decades; he’s lost count of how many boys faces have passed through this keep.

He can’t avoid the truth now. Geralt has to learn all the boys’ names, see them every day and train them for hours. It’s no secret he gets easily attached and when a boy disappears, is given a new scar or looks just a bit more haunted than the day before, it’s hard not to take it as a personal failure. It’s his job to keep them safe, make them strong. Except, the more he trains them the more he takes their humanity. The more he places on their shoulders.

With each move he teaches he takes one part of the life they could have had and replaces it with a Witchers.

It’s hard not to think about Julian. No news of the war reaches Kaer Morhen, human affairs weren’t to be meddled with after all. Without constant updates on force movements, Geralt has no clue if Temeria is even still winning. He despises the treatment of elves, sympathises all too much, and still he hopes for Temeria’s success. Because as long as they are winning he can believe that Julian is safe.

* * *

It’s midday and he doesn’t have any classes to teach right now, a rare blessing. Well, blessing was a relative term, the last round of mutations had killed more boys than usual and the class sizes were significantly decreased.

Geralt tries to focus on the positive that he now has more time to read up on monster lore. He’s halfway through a book on dragons when he hears the first crash. Such a noise wasn’t particularly uncommon but it was too loud and followed by more and then screams.

He goes to the window and outside in the courtyard he can see people. Human people.

Lots of them in an angry mob already filling the courtyard and he’s sure they have mages with them. As fast as he can he dons his armour and grabs his sword, racing down the flights of stairs.

The screams grow louder with every second. He spares glances out of passing windows and sees the tutors defending the boys out in the open, but there’s only so many.

He reaches the courtyard and is instantly being attacked by a man with a pitchfork. Geralt narrowly misses the stab and runs his own sword through the man with a quick clean strike. He grabs the boy nearest and shoves him towards the door. It was safer inside than out. For now.

He joins the other tutors. Vesemir is supposed to be out here but he can’t see him.

Geralt ignores his worry and his feelings and focusses on becoming everything these humans believed him to be. A killing machine. He moves faster than they can even think and he makes quick work of the humans nearest to him, most likely proving their prejudices against him.

He ushers a few more boys inside but there’s already so many dead on the ground. Even the other tutors are dead or missing.

Then a mage steps forward and Geralt can’t dodge the attack that throws him to the floor. Not a strong mage as he easily gains his feet and advances on them before they can kill him. He takes them out in one blow and the courtyard is now filled with bodies. Geralt looks over to the stables and can see pools of blood running down the cobblestones outside it. 

The bastards had slaughtered all the horses and farm animals.

After that, he runs inside to find as many of the boys as he can. They’re scattered and with a pained realisation, he comes across the slaughtered body of one of the youngest in the hallway. Which meant they were already in the keep and Geralt had sent them to their deaths.

He follows the trail of bodies to the main hall where a fight is already in swing. Vesemir fights at the forefront against a more powerful mage while the few adult Witchers fight the humans. Boys already lay dead at their feet and those left cower under tables.

Some are brave enough to pick up a sword and join the fight. They’re killed before they can even swing.

Geralt fights as well as he is able when he hears the screams coming from upstairs. He sprints towards the noise praying that he will make it in time.

Upstairs he finds a group of ten boys against one mage. Geralt shoves in front of them and casts quen to protect the boys from the onslaught of chaos being thrown at them. The magic stops and Geralt casts aard throwing the mage down the hall.

He sends the boys away telling them to hide not fight. They round the corner and he doesn’t see them again. Geralt advances on the mage lying crumpled in the floor, sword in hand, ready to finish the job.

At barely a meter away the mage suddenly sits up and throws his arm out at him.

Geralt cries out in pain as a mage throws him against a wall and his back explodes in pain. He crumples to the ground trying to ignore the searing pain spreading across his back and down his spine.

The mage must think he’s dead because he leaves and Geralt is left alone. He can still hear the slaughter happening in the rest of the keep. With a groan of pain, he staggers to his feet, his back slick with blood. On shaky feet, he crosses the room to grab his sword and makes his way to the fight.

“Geralt.”

It’s Vesemir. There’s three of him wobbling before him.

“Ves…”

“You need to leave.” Vesemir is grabbing his shoulder and directing him back the way he came. Away from the fight.

“No, I can help,” Geralt protests despite his vision dancing before him.

Vesemir doesn’t stop and leads him to the basement but he doesn’t stop there. He keeps leading him down further into the keep until they come face to face with a tunnel. Geralt didn’t know the keep even went this deep.

“You’ve done enough, save yourself.”

Geralt protests weakly but his back feels like it’s on fire.

Vesemir lets go of him and is handing him a torch. “Take this. Go. Don’t stop. Get as far away as you can.”

Geralt takes the torch and moves to go down the tunnel when he realises Vesemir isn’t following. “What about you?”

“This is my school. I’ll defend it to the end.” Vesemir takes a deep breath and then mutters an incantation.

The walls begin to rumble and large chunks fall from the ceiling kicking up dust. Geralt chokes and stumbles backwards as more and more boulders fall. He swears this is how he will die, crushed alone in a tunnel. But when the ceiling settles and he lifts his torch he sees that the entrance tunnel is blocked by the rockfall.

The only light is the torch in his hand and the only way out is to find the other end.

The tunnel is endless. After a few minutes, the sounds of the massacre dissipate into nothingness and all Geralt can hear is his own breaths echoing off the walls. He clutches at the walls to steady himself as he walks. He can feel blood soaking into his clothes and each step jolts his back.

Along the walls he can feel strange rocks and finds that he’s feeling along a never-ending line of skeletons embedded in the rock alongside fossils of sea creatures. Clearly the bones of children and some bones that he can identify as elves. It’s a stark reminder of how long Kaer Morhen has stood here; for centuries the keep has stood as the coast retreated and made way for mountains, and for centuries it has ceaselessly claimed the lives of thousands.

Maybe it was a good thing it was falling.

Geralt instantly feels guilt for even thinking such a thing. Students faces and names now belonged to murdered children who would never be buried. Vesemir was dying for a lost cause. The only comfort he had was that Eskel and Lambert weren’t there.

He feels the draft before he sees the exit. Following the growing wind that makes his skin shiver. With each step he comes closer to the way out of this godforsaken tunnel.

At last he sees a light and reaches the exit. It’s practically unnoticeable and just big enough for him to crawl through. From the outside, it looks like any other burrow a forest creature might make.

He recognises the mountainside. It’s a few miles down from the keep and on a different cliff face to the trail they used. He had been here for his wilderness training. The land was more difficult to navigate on this side of the mountain and it was a true test of a young Witcher’s ability to see how long he could last.

Geralt is grateful for that now when he somewhat easily gains his bearings and makes his way to a small cave for cover. He treats his wounds as best he can and sleeps on his stomach so as not to aggravate his injury.

He stays there for four days. Both due to his back and due to wanting to make sure there were no lingering humans or mages on the hunt for escaped Witchers. He was in no condition to fight right now.

When his back is healed, leaving behind a nasty scar, he makes his way down the mountain. He stays as silent as possible, who knows how many people are still lingering around the now destroyed keep. When he reaches the base of the mountain, he takes the route he hasn’t in nearly seventy years.

By way of the de Sade lands.

There’s no villages in that direction for days which he hopes is enough to avoid humanity in these areas enough to slip by. Despite all the years he still knows every step along the path. The area has become overgrown in his absence but still looks much the same. When he passes by the estate itself, he staggers to a stop.

The gates are the same but are now devoured by rust. Up at the end of the long path he can see the manor Dandelion called home. It’s in a state of disrepair and clearly no lord has lived in these parts for some time. Dandelion left no heirs and he had always said other nobles didn’t care to come this far north.

Geralt thinks the house looks almost in mourning at the loss of it’s owner. Lonely. How he had felt after Dandelion died. He no longer feels that sadness or loss – he knows that his Dandelion, his Buttercup, his Julian, is out there right now alive.

He moves on leaving the house behind, no longer feeling weighed down by the past.

It takes a lot of effort to avoid civilisation. The villages have grown over time and Geralt has to travel further out of his way than he had been expecting. It’s especially harder to travel without a horse and he needs to brave going into a village to buy another.

If he makes it out of Kaedwen he should be safe. He’s itching to march into the nearest village he sees and demand news on the war. His back aches with each night he sleeps on the floor with no provisions other than his armour and swords and what he can scrounge.

Even though his advanced healing ability has closed the wound he feels phantom pains of it splitting open. Relives being slammed against the wall by that mage while he let innocents die. He knows he deserves the pain and that thought motivates him to stay away from humans for as long as possible.

He must be out of Kaedwen by now. It’s been several weeks on the road and he must be as far as Lyria. He makes a small camp before the sun goes down. There’s a town nearby he’ll reach by tomorrow. He’s both anxious about stepping foot in a town and eager for information.

Geralt has no option to decide when two travellers stop by the side of his camp and tentatively sit down opposite him. It’s an older man and a younger boy who must be his son.

“Do you mind if we share your camp, Witcher?” the man asks, “Safety in numbers.”

Geralt would rather camp alone but he admires the man’s bravery. There’s still the scent of fear on the air, more so from the boy than the man. A part of him is wary that this might be a trap to hunt him down.

“Hmm,” he nods slightly in consent and the man and boy settle opposite him more comfortable.

“Would you like some venison? Antoni here caught a deer not yesterday afternoon,” the man gestures to his boy and gives him a nudge prompting him to open his bag. From inside he pulls out large chunks of cooked meats and hands one to him with a shaking hand.

Geralt takes the meat gratefully and takes a bit bite. A little overcooked and hard to chew but good nonetheless.

The man likes talking and filling the silence, Geralt is used to that by now but he has less patience for it when it’s not Julian. “Oh yes, it sure has changed in these parts since the war.”

Geralt’s stomach turns cold, “The war?” he prompts, trying not to appear too eager for information.

“Surely you’ve heard?”

“Caught the beginning of it.”

The man huffs, “Well they chased all them elves to the edge of the world. The elves that knew what was good for ‘em left their land to us humans and went off to their gold palaces. Those who resisted were killed.”

“The elves lost?” Geralt mourns the loss of another ostracised species. It seemed the humans had a habit of destroying that which they did not understand. Perhaps that was why they had attacked Kaer Morhen, they were fuelled up from the victory of the war. At least that means Julian was on the winning side. He must be alive somewhere

“Aye, that they did,” the man nods solemnly, “We used to live in Aedirn till it happened. We left when them westerners came charging in. Bunch of the local lads took up the cause. Turned ‘em nasty. I ain’t no elf sympathiser, but they were better neighbours. All these new folk stormed in taking land that wasn’t theirs.”

“Temerian forces?” Geralt prods, searching for any snippet of information he can get on Julian.

The mad nods gravely, “And Cintra. It was the Cintrans who stayed. Temerian folks all went home, needed to protect their prince. Heard he was wounded in battle.”

Geralt’s stomach drops, “The prince?”

“Prince Griffin,” the boy buts in eagerly, the first he’s spoken all night. “I saw him after a battle. He said he’d saved us from the closest village of elves. Said they’d been planning a secret attack.”

The admiration in the boy’s voice is clear as day, the side glance the man gives his son suggests he’s less than inclined to agree. “Can you believe it? I saw the future King of Temeria!”

Geralt frowns, “The heir to Temeria is Prince Julian.”

“Prince Julian?” the man shakes his head, “Nah, nah. He was killed he was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was originally gonna have Vesemir be more straight-faced teachery but I just finished Killing Eve and I loved Kim Bodnia in it so I had to include the classic Konstantin laugh! the song is How Could I Not - Tom Rosenthal
> 
> sorry if you thought you were getting jaskier in this chapter you gotta wait a lil longer for that, but I hope you enjoyed this!


	8. you owe me nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp this is my longest chapter yet clocking in at around 17k! i had split up my chapters so they were all around 5k but I got a bit carried away with this part. I'm not sure what kids can do at what age so I just guessed. This chapter is very Julian-centric so hope you enjoy!

The year is 1094 when Temeria celebrates the birth of the prince. King Cedric and Queen Berengaria welcome their firstborn Julian on a stormy summer night and his first wails seem louder than the raging storm itself.

“He’ll grow up to be a strong ruler,” Cedric says proudly to his wife as she cradles the newborn in her arms.

“He will,” Berengaria agrees, not taking her eyes off her sleeping son.

Cedric leaves after a few minutes to make the official royal announcement of his heir to the court. Julian opens his eyes and blinks up at his mother and begins to cry. She rocks him gently and whispers soothing nothings to the babe but nothing seems to quiet his temper.

* * *

Julian is nearly two years old when he learns to walk without support, and since that point has become a master of running away from his nurses. He runs through the castle as fast as his little legs will carry him. He ignores the shouts of servants and nobles he nearly runs into and only laughs as he rounds winding corners.

He stops running outside the main hall and he can hear his father’s voice coming from inside. Julian rarely sees his parents and he knows both of them are inside. He steps through the open door that is adjacent to the raised stage where his mother and father sit on their thrones.

“Papa!” He yells excitedly and runs towards the man, with great effort he climbs the steps and then he is stood in front of his father. “Papa,” he smiles.

The room is silent and Cedric frowns at the boy, “Not now, Julian.”

“Papa, come play,” Julian tugs at his fathers cloak and tries to climb onto his lap.

“Not now,” Cedric repeats, louder and angrier.

Julian looks up at him as tears well in his eyes, “Papa?”

“Where’s his goddamn nurse?” Cedric yells at the servants lining the hall and several of them scurry away to find her.

Julian looks over at his mother who is looking at him with a tight expression, “Mama?” he waddles the few paces to her, “Mama, come play?”

The Queen says nothing and looks away from him, head held high and staring at the rest of the court gathered in the hall. Tears run hot and fat down Julian’s face and he looks desperately between his parents but they both ignore him. His sobs are loud and he doesn’t care about the people watching.

“Papa,” he wails.

Cedric stands from his throne, “Go away, Julian! Before you embarrass us anymore,” he yells, face red.

Julian’s nurse is there then and she scoops him up and carries him away. Julian fights against her grasp, he doesn’t want her, he wants his mama and papa.

* * *

Julian is four when his brother is born. He isn’t allowed to see his mother or the new baby for two weeks. He’s kept out of sight on the other side of the castle. He learns that his brother's name is Griffin from some servant.

He’s meant to be learning his letters. His governess had given him parchment and a pen to practice writing but the ink blurs together and he can’t get it right. He’s been trying for hours.

All Julian can think about is his little brother. He hopes that Griffin likes to play.

The governess leaves him alone to go fetch his dinner. Julian takes the opportunity to slip out of his bedroom and run as fast as he can to the east wing of the castle. He wanders aimlessly through the corridors, he doesn’t know where his mother and Griffin have been staying but he knows it is near here.

He hears crying coming from inside a door at the end of a passageway. There’s no one around and he goes inside.

There’s a small bed in the room, with bars around the side. The crying is coming from inside and Julian slowly walks towards it. He peers over the side and scrunches his nose at the sight of the small fat thing. He’s never seen a baby before but he hopes that when it stops crying it will play with him.

“Hello,” he says softly. Julian is stood on his tiptoes and is just tall enough to see over the bars. “I’m Julian, I’m your brother.”

The baby stops crying and blinks with big eyes up at him.

“You’re Griffin.”

The baby says nothing and Julian frowns. “Do you like to play?”

Griffin only squirms and makes a gurgling noise.

Julian frowns and huffs, “You’re no fun.” He steps away from the baby and it starts to cry again.

The door suddenly flings open, a nursemaid comes in followed by his mother. “Mama,” Julian says happily, “Mama I met Griffin.”

His mother does not smile back only grabs his arm roughly and leads him out of the room. “What are you doing here? Leave, before your father finds out about this.”

“I just wanted to-“

“Leave, Julian. Go back to your room,” his mother lets go of his arm and goes back into the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

* * *

When Griffin grows up enough the walk and talk, Julian is happy to finally have someone to play with. Even if Griffin can only talk in half-formed sentences and takes twice as long to waddle after him Julian is still happy. He parades around the castle and the garden and Griffin follows and copies everything he does.

The boys are inseparable and do everything together. Julian will sneak out of his lessons to go find his baby brother so they can steal food from the kitchens. Griffin will scream and cry until Julian is brought to him, Griffin never had the knack for escaping that Julian did.

The older Julian gets the less he sees of his parents. He hardly ever sees his mother, it’s his maids and servants and governesses who raise him. He sees her at royal banquets and official affairs but he doesn’t talk to her. He is meant to be silent.

When he sees his father it is usually because he is in trouble. He has skipped too many lessons or he’s a bad influence on Griffin. He learns to avoid his father as much as possible and in turn avoid the people who will tattle on him.

When Julian is nine years old, Griffin is five and is just starting his lessons. Griffin can write, just about, now, so it is time for him to learn their family history and about Temeria. Julian remembers those classes and how boring they were, which was why he escaped from as many as he could. But Griffin isn’t like him in that sense, he stays and learns and behaves.

Julian winds up attending his own lessons because Griffin won’t leave his. The tutors try and teach him about taxes and how Temeria makes its money and basic exchange rates, Julian sits there but he doesn’t listen as much as he should. The only lessons he enjoys are his music lessons.

He learns classical piano. His fingers are too small yet to play any grand pieces but he learns simplified versions off by heart. At parties he is asked to play and the guests marvel at the talents of the crown prince. It is one of the few moments he enjoys being at court, he is allowed to be loud and all the attention is on him.

At night he’ll sneak into Griffin’s room and they’ll talk for hours because they don’t get to play together any more. Griffin talks and talks about his lessons and everything he’s learnt about their family history. Julian knows he should know all this too but the names of his ancestors slip of Griffin’s lips with ease and Julian can’t even remember his grandfather's name.

* * *

Julian is twelve when Griffin decides he doesn’t like him anymore.

Griffin is eight and currently learning about taxes. Over the years Julian has watched him become more and more invested in his lessons and learning about their country. Griffin always wanted to play at being Kings ruling the kingdom and going to war, Julian wanted to play at being commoners going to market.

Julian knows that one day he will be King, the thought sits heavy in his stomach every time he thinks about it. The older he gets the more responsibility is expected of him. He has to go to court every day and sit beside his mother and father silently. He has to attend lawmaking sessions and court rulings, has to attend the hours in which commoners come and beg the king to improve their life, has to attend weddings and betrothals for all the lords and ladies in the kingdom.

There’s so much he is expected to remember to prepare himself to be King but it slips through his fingers like sand. Each time he fumbles and can’t remember the name of a lord or which village is where on the map he meets the punishment of his father. If he’s lucky, it’s a snide comment in front of the court and the hidden sniggers of the nobles. If he’s less lucky, his father will yell at him for hours until the words have lost their meaning. If he’s truly unlucky, it’s a cane and a beating.

Griffin is the pride and joy of his parents.

He attends every lesson and enjoys them, too, He soaks up the lessons like a sponge and is a well-behaved and well-mannered boy. Griffin is everything his parents wished for in a son.

Julian’s only real talent remains music and poetry but that isn’t something his parents can brag about. Griffin is old enough to pick up on their differences now, he stops playing with Julian and takes his parents side. Julian doesn’t blame him when he sees his parents praise him, he would have done anything when he was his age for that kind of affection. It hurts, though, and he tries to ignore the pain of the loss of his only friend.

* * *

Julian is fourteen years old when his betrothal is announced. He will be wed to the Princess Clarissa of Toussaint when they are both of age. Clarissa is two years younger than him and he thanks whatever gods there are that he has six years instead of four left until that happens.

Clarissa is a lovely and beautiful girl, she is demure and respected and the perfect model of a princess. Julian really doesn’t want to marry her. The thought of marriage is just as bad as being King, but if he was ever going to marry he’d want to marry for love. And he could never love Clarissa, she was kind and sweet but much too boring.

She doesn’t like him, either, he can tell. Few people do. They speak and she smiles politely but they share no common interests. Julian tries to talk about music but she knows nothing about it and doesn’t care to. He sees her smiling a lot more when she speaks to his brother or the other nobility.

He spends the evening watching the band and tapping his foot in time with the beat. He would give anything to join them. He’s drawn to the lute player and how fast his fingers strum them. Julian has never played one before, he’s only been allowed a piano, but he wants to learn.

When the band takes a break he finds the lute player. “You play very well.”

The lutist stammers, “I thank you, your highness.”

“When did you learn to play?”

He doesn’t seem that much older than him, only a few years and Julian thinks he looks younger than eighteen. “When I was a boy, your highness.”

“You can just call me Julian,” he scrunches his nose, he hates being called that.

“Yes, your highness.”

Julian licks his lips, “Could you teach me to play?”

The lutist stares at him blankly for a moment, “Now?”

“No,” Julian shakes his head, although he would love to learn how to play now and also keep talking to him, “But soon?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, your highness, I’m a travelling bard and I leave in the morning.”

Julian tries not to let his disappointment show, “Very well. Good luck with the rest of your performance.”

The rest of the night he is quiet, he can’t stop thinking about the lute and the fantasy of being free to travel wherever he wants.

* * *

Julian is attractive, he knows. He is eighteen and he flirts and is given offers of romance and can make both boys and girls blush with his words. He’s thankful for his looks considering most royal lines tend to be on the ugly side after generations of inbreeding.

He is walking a hall of the castle lined with portraits of all the kings, queens, princes and princesses of Temeria. His family line all laid out for him to see. He walks this hall every day and he still can’t remember most of their names.

He’s stood in front of a portrait of his family. It was done a few years ago and he barely remembers having it done beyond the boredom. His mother and father stand tall, proud and stern behind him. Griffin is their mirror image and his father has his hand on Griffin’s shoulder. Julian is in front of their mother, it barely looks like him but he hadn’t stood still for the majority of it.

What strikes him is how different he looks from the rest of his family. His parents and brother aren’t unattractive but they look plain. They all have sharp features and stern faces, but his has always been round and on the chubby side. They all have blonde hair, although his mother and father are now greying. They all have brown or green eyes. In short, he is their polar opposite, he wonders if he was a changeling and swapped with a fae baby. He’d like that, it’d mean he didn’t have to stay here.

Curiously he walks back the length of the hallway, looking at the portraits of his ancestors in a way he hasn’t before. They all had the same features, blond hair, sharp faces and green or brown eyes. He is the only one with brown hair and blue eyes.

“What are you doing?” Griffin is at the end of the hallway and frowning at him. Julian finds it amusing how much the fourteen-year-old scolds him.

“Looking at paintings,” Julian shrugs and walks towards his brother.

“You were meant to be at court ten minutes ago. Father’s angry.”

“Father’s always angry,” Julian dismisses.

They walk side by side to the main hall. “Can’t you behave for once in your life?”

“Can’t you misbehave for once in your life?”

Griffin pulls his lips tight and looks so much like their mother that Julian has to look away. “We’re princes, we’re not meant to misbehave.”

* * *

The one thing Julian does enjoy doing with his brother is sword practice. They’ve been learning since they were old enough to pick one up and Julian has become quite skilled at the practice.

Griffin is skilled, too, against anyone else. He’s strong and built more heavily than Julian is. They’re the same height but where Julian is slimmer Griffin is broad. Griffin relies on brute strength but Julian is able to slip past his defences and move quickly out of his attacks.

This is the one time a week that Julian gets to channel his anger at being the heir to the throne into something physical.

This is the one time a week that Griffin gets to channel his anger at not being the heir to the throne into something physical.

Julian knows how much Griffin wants to be King. He undermines Julian at every opportunity and does everything to please their parents as if being good enough will change the lineage. Julian wishes he were right, he wishes Griffin was older.

It’s only sparring, meant to be training but Julian can see the very real hatred in Griffin’s eyes. He remembers when he was just a toddler and had looked at him with admiration. He mourns the life he could have lived had they stayed friends.

Griffin hits hard with his sword but Julian blocks it easy, his brother is many things and predictable is one of them. They practice with live steel now but even when they had used wooden swords Griffin always gravitated to the same moves. He hardly blocked, always attacked and never thought about his opponents' next move. He was an instinctive fighter, not calculated.

Julian already knows what Griffin will do next. If he blocks Griffin's overhead arch then he immediately tries to attack Julian’s right side. If Julian lands a hit, which is frequently, then Griffin swings angrily at Julian’s left. He’s seen his brother spar with others before and his brother usually wins, Julian isn’t sure if it’s because of Griffin’s brute strength or if because people let him win because he’s the prince.

He thinks it’s probably a mix of both, Griffin has grown taller than him which is immensely annoying. He looks nearly twice the size of Julian in terms of muscle, which is saying something because Julian spends more time in the training yard. If it were allowed Griffin would make a fine and intimidating soldier.

Griffin’s hits slow down and Julian has him chasing him round the courtyard as he spins out of his way. Griffin is panting hard but Julian has barely broken a sweat. He smiles smugly to himself as he lands several hits in quick succession and has Griffin laying on his back in defeat. This is the one thing his parents value that he beats him in.

“Good match,” he grins and offers his hand out to Griffin.

Griffin stands by himself with a glum face and walks past him, butting his shoulder into his harshly. Julian snorts at his antics, sometimes Griffin is more melodramatic than he is.

He puts his sword back in the rack when he is approached by a young maiden, one of the many that had been watching him spar this afternoon.

“Your highness,” she curtsies, “That was very fine swordsmanship.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he grins, takes her hand in his and kisses it. She blushes and giggles and Julian is enraptured. She asks if he would like to join her for dinner and he accepts. She is beautiful, she has long ginger locks and freckles all over her face. He has dinner with her and her family, all of them are witty and charming and welcoming and Julian wishes he could have this with his own family.

When he leaves at the end of the night she walks him to the door. He knows she expects him to kiss her and he would love to, but he thinks of sweet Clarissa and his betrothal. It isn’t a marriage for love but he could never be unfaithful. Instead, he takes her hand in his and kisses it again. He sees the disappointment flash in her eyes but she hides it well and bids him goodbye.

He stays up that night thinking of her laugh. His mind drifts to other who have caught his attention. There were plenty of noble ladies he saw at court, and noble men, he wasn’t fussy. When he was allowed in town he’d find his gaze drawn to handsome shopkeepers or pretty barmaids. He could pursue them and most would enjoy his advances, but he can’t bring himself to. Clarissa deserves better than a husband and King who has slept with half their court.

* * *

Julian is escorting Clarissa back home. And by that, it means he has to travel with the Toussaint royal party along with a couple of his men in a separate carriage. The only time he sees Clarissa is at meal times when the entourage stops; not that he wants to see her more, he just knows this is a waste of time.

A couple of stray travellers and merchants are following their party – it was safer to travel that way. They’ve stopped for the night just after they’ve passed a town a few miles back.

Julian’s guards have left to get their own meals. He’s meant to be following after them but he fidgets on the spot and begins to walk away from the camp. On the way past the merchants he swipes a pair of commoners clothes from the back of a wagon. He heads as fast as he can to town so as not to be caught.

It takes nearly an hour before he sees the lights in the distance and when he does he disappears into the trees to change into the clothes he stole. He can’t hear anyone following him and quickly reaches the town.

He’s been smart enough to take a purse of coin to pay for a night at the inn. His heart is racing with anxiety with each step, he keeps looking over his shoulder expecting his guards to come drag him back.

But they don’t.

Julian falls asleep on the too small lumpy mattress. For tonight he’s just Julian.

In the morning he wakes bright and early and mooches around town. There’s still no search party for him. He wonders if they even realise that he’s gone. Julian knows he should head back, he’s had his fun now, but the taste of freedom has taken its hold.

He finds a music shop and remembers the bard with the lute from all those years ago. Julian buys it and a book on how to actually play. He heads back to the inn and spends all day teaching himself how to play until his fingers bleed.

By the evening he has a fairly firm grasp of about three simple songs. None of his own but he’s already brimming with ideas that he doesn’t know how to translate into music yet.

The innkeeper looks at him warily when he asks to perform, no doubt having heard his terrible playing all morning until he got the knack of it. With a little persuasion he relents and Julian nervously sets up on a stool.

Thankfully, he has a good voice, which is enough to carry his performance over the less than skilled lute playing. As he starts he sinks into it like he was born for it. He’s used to eyes on him, the prying looks of court, this is different, this is better.

There’s one person who isn’t watching him.

Julian doesn’t know whether to be offended by the lack of attention or intrigued by the tense form of the man dressed in all black.

He finishes his performance after a few songs, he sings a few he knows already without the lute but they get less coin than the few he plays with the accompaniment.

Julian gets an ale to soothe his throat, adrenaline running high. And then he makes his way over to the brooding man. There’s half eaten bread on the man’s plate and Julian’s stomach rumbles at the sight. He’d spent all his coin on the room and the lute, he hadn’t even thought of food and his stomach clenches painfully.

“Not hungry?” he asks, finally getting the man to look at him. Julian’s breath catches in his throat at those burning yellow eyes.

“No,” the man grunts.

A Witcher, Julian thinks, eyeing the swords tucked safely at the man’s side. A very attractive Witcher.

His stomach rumbles again and he reaches out for the bread, “Mind if I? Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the Witcher grumbles, his voice rolling and deep, enough to send a shiver of want down Julian’s spine.

“Sorry to steal your food, haven’t eaten in a while,” he smiles sheepishly, trying not to focus on the instant curl of attraction. He must think of Clarissa. He must be faithful.

The Witcher doesn’t answer and stares at him for a long while. Julian finishes the bread and helps himself to the other scraps of food left on the Witcher’s plate. He can’t tell what the other man is thinking. He’s looking at Julian in a strange way that should be uncomfortable but Julian finds himself feeling easy in his presence.

“You’re quiet, aren’t you?” he contemplates. Probably for the best, lest Julian slip out that he’s a prince on the run. Well, on the run for a day, maybe two.

The Witcher only hums and Julian licks his lips. The man looks like he was sculpted specifically to tempt Julian. He doesn’t know what his type was before this because he’s never seen anyone who looks this good.

“Very well, I’m Julian,” he wonders if he should try and shake his hand but thinks physical contact might be too much for him to handle right now. “And you are?”

“Geralt,” he responds, a softer edge to his tone. Julian could melt at the sound of his voice.

It takes a bit of needling to get Geralt to start talking in longer sentences but Julian asks about monster hunting and that gets him going. He prods and prompts for more information until Geralt is giving an impromptu lecture on how many species can be classed as dragons but there’s a difference between true dragons, wyverns and a bunch of other species.

Julian isn’t completely listening or retaining the information. He’s just letting himself get lost in the sound of Geralt’s low gravelly voice. He imagines what that voice would sound like against his neck, if the bristles of his stubble would tickle his neck, what his hands would feel like.

Briefly, he thinks about Clarissa. He had promised to stay faithful and he has, he hasn’t even kissed anyone since they were promised to each other. Of course, he had been tempted, but he’d never wanted anyone as much as this. The desire in him burns so deep that he thinks if he forgoes this opportunity he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

Geralt isn’t part of the Temerian court, he doesn’t even know who Julian is. No one will find out. Julian leans over the table and interrupts whatever Geralt is saying by crashing his lips into him.

It’s clumsy and a little misplaced and the table digs into his stomach, but Geralt lets out a gasp against his lips and raises a hand to cup his cheek and Julian is lost.

They fumble as they hurry up the stairs to the room Julian paid for. They keep kissing as much as they are able as they go. Julian feels like he’s on fire. Geralt winds his arms around his waist and pulls him tight against his chest and Julian lets out a breathless moan.

Geralt pulls away when they reach the bed and Julian mourns the loss. He’s panting and Geralt is looking at him with such wide-eyed intensity Julian thinks he might fall in love then and there.

Julian leans in to kiss him deeply again, pushing Geralt down against the mattress. They undress each other and Julian has half a mind to keep his back turned away so Geralt doesn’t see the scars that litter his skin.

He’s never done anything like this. He doesn’t know if he should say anything about this being his first time, but the thought is easily shoved aside when Geralt flips him and pins him to the mattress.

* * *

The morning starts with Julian held tightly in Geralt’s arms while the man keeps sleeping deeply. He should leave soon. Make his way back to the royal party. He shifts to slip away and Geralt’s arms tighten around him.

His skin is warm to the touch and irresistible to Julian, he snuggles back into the crook of Geralt’s neck. He breathes in his scent deeply and almost falls back asleep. Geralt wakes slowly and peers down at him with sleepy eyes, “You’re still here.”

Julian swallows, “I can leave-”

“No,” Geralt quickly stops him leaving, running his fingertips down his cheek with wonderment. “Thought you might have been a dream.”

Julian laughs lightly, “I can confirm I’m very real.”

Geralt makes a contented noise in the back of his throat and kisses him. It holds none of the heat or passion of last night, it feels almost domestic, loving. It sparks a desire deep inside Julian.

They lay in bed for the rest of the morning until the innkeeper comes to kick them out. Julian doesn’t have any coin left. He stays with Geralt while he packs up his horse, sitting on a hay bale, stalling until he has to return.

“Where will you go now?” he asks, half praying Geralt will say Temeria so he can see him again.

“North.”

Well, Temeria was west and the royal party was headed south. Julian makes a split decision, “Excellent,” he spreads his arms with over the top glee, “Me too!”

Geralt raises an eyebrow with amusement and Julian’s probably seeing things, but he thinks hope. “Is that so?”

“Yep, want to be travelling companions?” he winks.

Geralt snorts and offers a hand to help him up. Julian takes it and Geralt pulls him up and pulls him close against his chest. “Travelling companions?”

Julian smirks, leaning in but not letting their lips brush, “If you want,” he breathes. Geralt tilts forward to capture his lips but Julian pulls back a little. Geralt makes a frustrated noise and Julian smiles, “Or more?”

Geralt answers by surging forward and kissing him deeply.

They set off north with Julian say safely behind Geralt on Roach. This is probably one of the stupidest decisions of his life – abandoning everything in favour of following a Witcher he’s known for one day with only the clothes on his back and a lute. It doesn’t feel stupid though, it feels right. He doesn’t believe in Destiny, he believes in choices, but he’d be damned if this didn’t feel like what he was born to do.

* * *

Julian almost forgets that this isn’t the life he was meant for. It’s so easy to adopt this persona of who he wishes he could be. A travelling bard, raised by a well to do but not noble family, a man who gets along with everyone. It’s who he wishes he could be.

The days with Geralt all blur together and Julian isn’t sure if it’s been weeks or months since he started travelling with him. He’s pretty sure he should be more freaked out by the constant monster hunts and gore. There are times when he remembers this isn’t what he’s supposed to be doing.

Prince Julian, son of King Cedric, heir to the throne of the great kingdom of Temeria, is not meant to be washing the hair of a Witcher.

Prince Julian is not meant to be washing his clothes in a river.

Prince Julian is not meant to perform in the hopes of enough coin for a meal.

He’s not Prince Julian anymore. He’s just Julian. He feels free. In one night Geralt has ripped apart the chains that shackled him to his unwanted life and shown him who he can really be.

That’s not why he loves him. He isn’t besotted because Geralt is some hero (which he still is). Julian loves him because of his gentle touches. The way he hums when he isn’t sure what to say. The way he can talk for hours about monsters and stumble over asking for a meal. The way he holds Julian like he might slip away any second.

Julian has never felt so cherished as he has in the time he’s spent with Geralt. It makes the guilt in him grow at all the things he hides from him. He should tell him who he really is; but it’s been so long it would be weird to at this point, and what if it changes everything? And then there’s the scars on his back, the evidence that he isn’t just the happy bard he pretends to be.

He’s been careful so far. When they get changed he’ll keep his back facing away. He’ll bathe at a time when Geralt isn’t in the room. When they sleep together he’ll either have his back pressed into the mattress or make sure Geralt doesn’t touch his back and feel the raised skin.

It’s a wonder Geralt hasn’t already seen. Or maybe he has, and not said anything.

Julian knows that Geralt can tell something isn’t right. Geralt will give him a questioning look or stare at him like he’s trying to figure something out. It’s then that Julian will realise he’s dwelling on the past, not paying attention to something just Julian would be enthralled by, and he’ll plaster on a wide smile and forget about Prince Julian once again.

It all comes crashing down on him when Geralt returns from a hunt just a little sooner than expected and finds him stepping out of the bath, scars exposed.

“Geralt!” Julian spins, nearly twisting his ankle in an attempt to get his back away from sight. The cold air bites at his skin but it’s nothing compared to the panic inside. He’s both frozen in place and fighting the urge to run. He hopes that against all odds Geralt hasn’t seen but he knows that’s a pipe dream.

“It’s alright,” Geralt says, as gentle as ever, “But surely you know I don’t care about scars. It would be hypocritical.”

Julian wishes it was just that he was ashamed of the scars. It’s about what they represent, who he was and who he can never truly escape as much as he pretends.

“You weren’t meant to see,” he says weakly.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Geralt passes him a towel and Julian realises he’s still stark naked. He dries quickly and dresses, feeling more comfortable with his skin covered.

They lie wordlessly in bed, Julian safe and protected in Geralt’s strong hold. “You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”

Julian thinks he should tell him everything. The whole truth about who he is. He can’t though, he doesn’t want to admit his past is still his present. It would shatter the illusion that he can do all this until he dies.

“It was my father,” he admits, the rest of the truth on the tip of his tongue. It won’t come out. The words catch in his throat and refuse to make themselves known. Another time, he promises himself. Just Julian can still have a bad father, he reasons, just another bad man amongst the rest, and he can pretend Prince Julian doesn’t exist for a while longer.

Geralt begins to talk about his own scars and what caused each one. Julian can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face and Geralt talks lowly in the dimming light. He could stay like this forever.

* * *

It’s a few months later when Julian asks. He knows that asking about Geralt’s past will mostly bring up questions about his own but he’s ready to answer any that arise. There’s so much love in Geralt that he doesn’t fool himself into thinking he’s the first to be on the receiving end of it.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes. Have you?” Geralt answers honestly. Julian feels a small spark of jealousy at whoever had managed to steal the Witchers affections before him, but it quells quickly.

“No, fleeting interests, never love. Until you.” Julian thinks about the people who had flirted with him in the court and the want he had felt towards them, he realises he didn’t want them. Even if he hadn’t held back because of Clarissa, he wouldn’t have truly wanted them. “Tell me about them?”

“Are you sure?”

“I want to know everything about you.” It’s true, he wants to know about all the people who stole Geralt’s heart. Because if they were special enough to make Geralt love them, Julian doesn’t think he can hate them.

The first is a lord. Julian finds some amusement in that, Geralt doesn’t seem like the type to fall for nobility – which was part of the reason he had kept his status a secret. “A taste for nobility then, have you?” he asks cheekily, sharing a joke with only himself that Geralt thinks he’s just a commoner when he has himself another noble.

“Not especially. After him was a commoner.”

“Any women?” He had seen plenty of beautiful women offer themselves to the Witcher in the time they had been together. Geralt could have his pick of any of them.

Geralt hasn’t been with any women and that prompts Julian to admit he’s never been with anyone.

“Really?”

For a second he thinks Geralt might get angry that he hasn’t already told him this but he stays silent. “Not for lack of wanting, I just never could.”

“Why?”

Julian licks his lips, he could confess the whole truth right now. He’s still a coward though and holds back. “I was engaged at a very young age,” he explains what happened, very carefully leaving out any mention of royalty and phrasing it in such a way it would apply both to a prince and a son of a wealthy family.

“Are you engaged anymore?”

“No, I ran away to become a bard.”

* * *

Of course that all gets fucked up when the tavern they’re in is visited by a group of Temerian men. Julian notices the second they enter and prays to every god they don’t notice him.

Piotr notices him.

Piotr was one of the lords that constantly clamoured for his father’s attention to get better positioning. Julian hated the slimy man. He comes up to the table and calls him Your Highness in front of Geralt and Julian can’t escape anymore.

He drags Piotr away before he can say anymore. “What do you want Piotr?”

“Your father has been very worried.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Julian scoffs.

“Has the Witcher kidnapped you, Your Highness. You disappeared in the night. I’m travelling with our finest Temerian men, we can save you.”

Julian glances over at Temeria’s finest, Geralt could take them easily. “Thank you, Lord Piotr, but I left of my own accord.”

Piotr frowns, “Why-”

“Will that be all, my Lord?”

Piotr stiffens, “You must come home at once, Your Highness.”

Julian wishes he could stay here but he knows Piotr is right. They know where he is now, they know who he’s travelling with. They won’t leave him alone.

“Very well. When are you returning?”

“Tomorrow, Your Highness.”

Julian gulps, “Right, well, I’ll join you then.”

Piotr bows and scurries back to the men. Julian takes a moment to compose himself and takes his seat next to Geralt.

“Care to tell me what just happened, _your highness?”_

Julian winces and tells him the truth. It all comes tumbling out about how he’s really a prince who ran away. He’s holding his breath waiting for the onslaught Geralt is sure to send his way. The lies, the dishonesty, it’s what he deserves.

And then Geralt rolls his eyes and says, “You’re still just Julian to me,” and that’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear.

* * *

Bringing Geralt with him to court was probably a mistake. He can see the tense line of his back as he sharpens his swords and then he asks about Clarissa.

“I didn’t want this life,” Julian explains.

“It’s still yours. You’re still a prince engaged to a princess.”

It hurts because it’s true. Julian can’t escape this life or pretend it’s disappeared just because he ran away. “It’s not what I want. It’s not real to me.” None of this life matters, all that matters to him is life on the road with Geralt.

“It’s real to me. Was I just your whore?”

Julian hates that he’s made Geralt feel this way. He should have told him sooner. So much sooner. He tries to explain his reasoning, begs Geralt to see that his love is real. He doesn’t listen.

“I think you should go,” Geralt looks away.

Julian can’t hold back the sobs at that and leaves the room. At the very least, he can give Geralt that. He walks down the familiar hallways trying to regain his breath. He feels like he’s been stabbed.

He just lost Geralt. Prince Julian had come back and ripped away the only thing that ever made him happy. Julian couldn’t leave it like that. Couldn’t walk away without a fight.

Julian wipes his eyes and makes his way to the fancy guest chambers he knows Clarissa will be staying in. He walks in and finds her having lunch with her mother and his mother.

It’s the first time he’s seen his mother since he left and he can’t read the expression on the Queen’s face. “Mother,” he greets. “May I speak with Clarissa, please?” he asks her mother.

They nod their consent and Clarissa follows him silently into the adjacent room. “What’s this about, your highness?” she asks warily.

“I don’t want to marry you,” he states.

A flash of hurt crosses Clarissa’s face. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You don’t want to marry me either.” She says nothing which is confirmation enough. “We don’t have to. They can’t force us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to break off our betrothal. I love someone else, I can’t marry you in good conscious.”

Clarissa shakes her head, “It’s too late, we’ve been betrothed for years,” she denies but there’s something like hope in her voice.

“Let us try. Please.”

She nods and Julian leads her back to where their mothers wait. “We’re not getting married.”

“What,” his mother stands. “What do you mean?”

Julian holds his head high, “I refuse to marry her. You may take me all the way to the ceremony but I won’t say the vows. I won’t. She doesn’t want to marry me either.”

“Clarissa, is this true?” her mother looks at her and she nods.

“It is. I refuse to marry Julian.”

Queen Berengaria scoffs, “It doesn’t work like that.”

Julian really wants to run away but he’s not a boy anymore. “No, mother, it is.”

She levels him with a glare, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing. How much you’re ruining? Years of building relations?” she hisses.

Julian shrugs, “Maybe you should have asked me what I wanted before you did all that.”

With that, he walks out of the room and races back to Geralt. Julian fears he may have already left but he’s still there when he gets back. His heart is still racing from the adrenaline.

“I broke off the engagement.”

“What?”

“I broke it off. I’m in a load of shit but it’s done. I don’t want all this, Geralt. I want you. Only you.”

“You broke it off?”

“If you don’t want to take me back, I understand-” Geralt kisses him before he can finish. It doesn’t matter if he’s just Julian or Prince Julian anymore. He has Geralt and he’s the happiest he could be when with him.

* * *

Seeing his father again is enough to suck all the courage out of him. He plays the part of grateful son and prince. He’s sure if Geralt weren’t here then he’d go back to the quiet obedient person he was before he left.

His father still strikes fear into his heart. Any wrong move and he’s certain his father might take his belt and whip him for everyone to see.

Geralt is here, though, and he would never let that happen. As they eat their meals in silence Julian begins to take back the courage that had run for the hills when he stepped foot in the hall. He dares to do something he never dared dream of as a child, he offers his hand to Geralt and leads him to the dance floor.

He can feel eyes on him. Especially the burning glares of his father. It doesn’t cause him to shrink away. Surprisingly he finds himself growing bolder by the second. Geralt tugs him even closer and he can’t help but laugh.

“Sorry for bringing you here.”

“Worth it.”

The dance is over and then his father is announcing he will return to his rightful place. His bravado is gone and is replaced by fear. He feels like a five year old again.

“Come now, Julian, take your place,” his father says and Julian reluctantly lets go of Geralt’s hand. He walks obediently towards his father. He feels sick. He looks at his fathers smug face, his mothers contempt and his brothers disgust.

They mean nothing to him.

“No,” he announces. And he’s not five anymore, he’s twenty and his own person.

“Don’t make me beat you, boy,” his father glares and for the first time in his life Julian doesn’t shrink at the threat.

“I’d like to see you try.”

He’s walking away with Geralt. Julian can almost breathe but his father can’t let go and he has to barter his freedom. He’ll return in winter. When they leave the clutches of the castle Julian can finally rest.

Geralt knows the whole truth, he’s not engaged and he can freely travel. Except Julian is constantly aware of the invisible noose around his neck that gets tighter every time winter draws near reminding him he’ll never be truly free.

* * *

Summer is full of love and laughter. Summer means Geralt and playing his lute and sleeping under the stars.

Winter is full of hate and judgement. Summer means his family and attending court and wearing uncomfortable high fashion.

Temeria is somewhat easier to bare in the winter than before, though. His father no longer beats him and most people have learnt to leave him be. It’s also worse because now he knows how good life can be and the stuffy castle will never match up.

Julian longs for the time when he was young enough for Griffin to still be his friend. He thinks that if he hadn’t grown to hate him, then life at the castle would be bearable. There would be someone who understood. Griffin takes too much after their parents for that to have ever been more than a dream.

Spring is his favourite season because it means he can set off and find Geralt again.

* * *

It’s after he’s finished performing that he gets approached by a man dressed in fine silks. Julian doesn’t need to hear the man introduce himself to know he is a messenger from his father’s court.

“Your highness,” the man bows.

“Just give me the message,” he sighs. He can see Geralt in the corner tense and ready to intervene, he can see the crowd in the tavern watching him with interest. Julian just wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.

The messenger hurries to hand him an envelope sealed shut with the Temerian coat of arms. “You can go,” he waves him away and makes his way to Geralt’s table. The letter feels heavy and he doesn’t want to open it.

“What is it?” Geralt asks, his voice even and not betraying his thoughts but Julian doesn’t need that to know what his Witcher is thinking. Anything from his father is likely to be bad news. He hopes it’s something small like a funeral or wedding he has to attend, but he knows it’s likely something more serious. His parents have probably arranged a new marriage for him or something like that.

“I don’t know,” he turns the letter over in his hands. “I don’t want to open it.”

“Don’t,” Geralt says, Julian knows he must be thinking the same thing as him.

He leaves the letter on the table while he eats his dinner and slowly drinks his ale. When he can’t ignore it anymore he opens it and sees his fathers handwriting on the parchment inside.

_Julian,_

_Temeria is at war. You are to come home at once and fulfil your duty._

_King Cedric_

Julian blinks and rereads the letter over and over again. War. That was the last thing he had been expecting. He silently hands the letter over to Geralt.

He hadn’t heard anything about a war brewing, especially not one involving Temeria. Although, they hadn’t spoken to anyone noble in a long time and mostly kept their travelling far away from his kingdom.

“A war,” Geralt breaks the long silence, “Are you going?”

“I don’t know,” Julian says. He has to, it’s his duty as Prince to lead his countrymen on the front lines. They can’t make him go. They can’t make him fight. He can hide away with Geralt, cut his hair and change his name until it all blows over.

“You don’t have to,” Geralt’s voice is casual but Julian hears the underlining pleading in his voice.

Julian takes the letter back and reads it again. War. He should have paid more attention in his lessons and then he might have some clue as to why they are going to war or who against. As it stands his mind comes up empty, Griffin would know he thinks bitterly.

“I know,” he says lowly, “Temeria has one of the best armies. They’ll be able to defend themselves.”

For the rest of the night he thinks of nothing else. Geralt is mostly quiet and lets him mull over it. They hold each other tightly and memorise each dip in each other's skin. Julian already knows that he can’t just leave it be, he’s still going to be King one day and a good king would fight with his people.

“I have to go back,” he whispers against Geralt’s chest. The decision is already haunting him and he wishes he hadn’t spoken the words out loud because it makes it real. He’s going to go to war. He might not survive.

“I know.”

As he drifts to sleep for what may be the last time in Geralt’s arms he hums a new melody. He doesn’t sing it even though the lyrics form easily. He has to survive so that he can come back and sing it for Geralt. He has to.

* * *

The ride to Temeria is long and boring and painful. With each mile of distance he puts between him and Geralt and gets closer to Temeria feels like a lead collar around his neck. It takes a few days to make the journey, he spreads it out as long as possible wanting to put off seeing his family.

On the way there he sees no armies gathering, hears no talk of war brewing. It confuses him somewhat considering it’s the reason why he is returning. Perhaps his father had summoned him well in advance so that he would be there in time.

The castle he grew up with rises tall above the rest of the town and he solemnly navigates the streets. This close to home people recognise him easily, people whisper and point and stare as he passes.

“Your highness,” he is greeted by a knight at the entrance to the castle, “Follow me.”

The knight leads him to the main hall, which is futile considering he was raised here and most likely knows the castle better than he does. Inside is his family and his father's council.

“Father,” he greets loudly with false happiness.

“Julian,” Cedric looks almost shocked to see him. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Julian walks up to the table they are all gathered around, there is a map laid out and wooden pieces marking positions on top. “It’s my duty,” he responds and meets his fathers gaze head on. “So,” he claps his hands together, “We’re at war? Against who?”

Griffin scoffs, “Maybe you’d know if you had been here.”

Julian ignores his brother's quip and looks at the wooden pieces. He recognises the lily indicating Temerian armies and lion pieces for Cintra. “We’re at war with Cintra?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” his father scolds quickly, “Cintra are our allies. This is Lord Sven, he’s been sent from Cintra to aide our war council,” he gestures to a man across the table from him.

“Our enemy is the Elder Races,” the Cintran tells him, “They’ve infiltrated every part of our Continent and it’s high time we dealt with them.”

Julian frowns, “You mean elves? What’s wrong with elves?”

The war council laughs as if he’s told the funniest joke in the world.

“Brother, for all you travel it’s a wonder you don’t know. Surely you’ve encountered more of these vermin than us?” Griffin huffs a laugh.

Julian shakes his head, “Yes, I’ve met elves, but they didn’t seem like bad people.”

“You’ve been fooled, then, boy,” Cedric shakes his head, “Fallen trap to their charms and schemes like so many of our good people. Elves are unnatural creatures, they have magic that they wish to use against humans, they take our women for themselves.”

Julian frowns, he’s seen none of that. In fact, many elf healers have helped Geralt after being wounded on a hunt. “I don’t think that’s right.”

The Cintran scoffs, “You know nothing.”

Julian licks his lips, maybe they were right. He should have paid more attention in his lessons, he doesn’t know much about elves at all. He’s not met that many and he knows nothing about their history.

He is silent as they discuss war plans. Within a few weeks their armies will have gathered and will set out across the Continent to purify the world of elves. Julian feels sick at the thought of how many lives he is expected to take. He had thought he was returning home to defend his people not lead a genocide.

It’s for the good of his people, he tells himself as the war council talk about the immoral way elves behave. If the elves are a threat to his people then he is doing what is right. He thinks of Geralt and the monsters he lets go because they aren’t harming people, and the people he calls monsters because they are.

Julian wonders if Geralt would think the elves are monsters. He wonders if Geralt will think he is a monster.

* * *

Julian is twenty-five years old when he marches to war.

Envoys had already been sent out in Temeria to rid their kingdom of elves. They were only small local companies and Julian had not yet been called upon. Their allies, Cintra and Redania had been doing the same thing; rooting through their own lands and dispatching of any elves they came across.

“The elves are all fleeing east,” Griffin says as they ready their horses. For the first time in years they’re almost friends. The whole situation feels bitter on his tongue but he’s glad that for the first time since he was born his family actually pay him any attention. “Aedirn’s full of them.”

Julian mounts his horse, the gelding has been stubborn ever since they arrived in Temeria. He disliked the other horses in the palace stables and often refused to move. He reminded him of Roach. It takes a few nudges to his flanks to get him to move and fall in line with his brother.

“You should get a new horse,” Griffin says disapprovingly.

“I like him,” Julian shakes his head, “Aedirn you said?”

Griffin perks up at that, Julian can see the eagerness in his eyes. He knows that it isn’t just some naive fantasy that war will be a grand adventure but a genuine drive to kill elves. He tries not the think about it.

“Yeah, they think crossing the Mahakam mountains will keep them safe. Aedirn’s King hasn’t officially allied with us yet. But it won’t stop us.”

Julian rides silently listening to Griffin and the men around him talk about what they’ll do to any elves they’ll find. He’s picked the wrong side, he knows deep down, but he tells himself that what his men say is true. He’s not on the wrong side. He can’t be.

He thinks about Geralt and where he is, he’d left him in Toussaint and if his Witcher had any sense he’d travel south not north. At least then he’d be out of danger. Part of him hopes he does travel north so he can see him again.

* * *

The year passes quickly. Each elf settlements they come across Julian and Griffin lead a charge of men into and claim the town as their own.

Julian has learnt not to hesitate, those who hesitate get killed. He can’t sleep at night and the screams haunt his nightmares. He’s never killed a woman or child elf, only the men but that’s not much better.

He’s a murderer.

With every day he listens to the elf hating propaganda that gets passed by the camp. The next settlement they are attacking has been stealing crops from its human neighbours. The one after hasn’t been paying taxes. Another has been attacking humans.

It has to be true. Julian’s never seen any of this for himself, but his men and the war council believe it so it must be. Why else would they have undertaken such a campaign?

He tries not to think about Geralt, which is impossible. Most of the time he thinks about what Geralt would say if he saw him now. The disappointment.

They’re far east by now. Aedirn and all the western kingdoms have nearly been cleansed. Dol Blathana is left. One of the last remaining large elf settlements left to dispatch of before they ventured further north and south on their crusade.

Julian has lost count of how many elves have died by his hands. They’re hosting a celebration. Tomorrow they would start their attack on Dol Blathana and it would be their biggest yet.

There is a large tent where all the high ranking allies have gathered, they’re having a grand feast. Or, as grand as is possible when at war. There are roasted boars and tankards of ale and not much else. Julian is sat at the high table with his father and Griffin and the other royal families that are here.

Most of them haven’t been on the front lines. He and Griffin have been in every battle since they left Vizima, he recognises a few lords around his age and another prince that sits at the table that have fought. The rest are old men who have sent them all on this campaign and have yet to lift a sword and do any of it themselves.

King Cedric stands after everyone has eaten and the tent quietens down.

“I would like the thank you all, my allies. We have undertaken the noblest cause in riding our great Continent of these Elder Race scum. I could ask for no better men to lead our cause,” he pauses and the room applauds and cheers and congratulates themselves. Julian suppresses an eye roll. “Most of all I would like the thank my son and heir, Julian,” Cedric continues and Julian’s head snaps towards him in shock. “We have struggled in the past but he has come to lead his country in its time of need, as is his duty and proven his worth. As has my youngest son, Griffin. I am proud to call them my sons.”

The tent applauds again and their attention is on him. It feels like he’s performing again. He’s waited his whole life to hear his father say those words and for a moment he basks in the glory. Griffin preens at their attention but Julian doesn’t miss the dirty looks he throws his way, some things don’t change. The Cintran King then stands to make his own speech, Julian doesn’t listen just repeats his father's words in his head.

He thinks about what it means to have his father be proud of him, and realises it’s not what he wants at all. If his father is proud of him then he has become everything he never wanted to be.

* * *

There is blood on his hands. Blood on his face and in his hair and in his mouth.

The sun is setting and it’s becoming harder to see. His sword is heavy in his hands but his hands are clenched around it. He cuts down an elf in front of him.

Someone is coming at him. He dodges the blade. Swings high and is blocked. He punches them in the stomach and they buckle. He drives his sword forward into their chest. He pulls it out and they drop.

It wasn’t an elf it was a man.

He staggers back and trips over a body behind him. He falls on his back and the world seems to slow. The battle rages on before him.

Mud and blood cover all those fighting before him. Swords clash and shouts fill the air. From down here he can’t tell the difference between the sides, who are his kinsmen and who are the enemy. Who are the humans and the elves. They are all the same.

His fingers loosen on his sword as he finally sees the truth he had been trying to ignore.

He doesn’t know how many elves he has already cut down. Guilt wells in his chest. He drops his sword into the mud. He has to stop this. How could he?

“Your grace!” Someone is hoisting him up and shoving his sword back in his hand.

Time speeds up again. The man who had just spoken to him suddenly goes still and the tip of a sword protrudes from his chest. Then that sword is being sliced at him and he blocks it. He plays defensive. He doesn’t want to kill any more people.

Someone else makes a swing at the man and then his opponents' attention is diverted away from him.

He is the prince. He is the one leading this charge. He can stop it.

“Retreat!” he yells at the top of his lungs. He yells it again and again until his soldiers listen.

They look at him with questioning eyes. He knows they were winning. Or at least not losing. But orders were orders.

Slowly they begin to move back. The elves chase them at every inch but soon they are back in the forest and heading back to the rendezvous point. Where his father is waiting for him.

The soldiers filter into camp and Julian can hear his father’s angry shouts before he sees him. When he reaches him his father slams him up against a tree.

“What the fuck did you do.”

Julian quirks a smile, “Retreated.”

“You idiot,” King Cedric’s teeth are gritted. “You useless piece of shit. Why the hell did you retreat? We were winning against the scum.”

Julian drops his smile and shoves his father off him. “They’re not. They’re just the same as us. I saw it.”

Cedric clenches his jaw and his fist, “I’ve never been so disrespected.”

“Good!” Julian yells. He is aware he is attracting a crowd. “You didn’t see what I did out there. You can’t even tell the difference between us and them. The only difference is they have pointed ears.”

Cedric backhands his son across the face. His rings splitting the skin on his cheek. Julian ignores the pain radiating through his face and makes no reaction which serves to anger his father more.

“You will meet the enemy on battle again. You will not fail me. Or else you will meet a worse demise than at the hand of an elf,” He spat at him and storms off pushing people out of the way as he left.

Julian falls back against the tree and wipes the blood away from his cheek. The eyes of his soldiers are all on him. Some look disgusted at his supposed betrayal of their side. Others look curious; he can see them rethinking their stance. He doubts that introspection would last much longer than it takes for them to charge into battle again.

The common folk can’t afford to feel guilt over their sides. Their lives are at the mercy of the lords that rule the land they had unwillingly be born on. A villager will have no impact on the events to come. It was better for them to believe in their cause; at least for the battle. Questioning morality would make them reluctant to swing a sword and wouldn’t save them in a fight. They just wanted to survive.

Julian understands this. It doesn’t stop the bitterness within him when he sees their resolves slide into siding with his father. The disgusted looks they give him. The way they step back from him as he walks away from camp as if he is diseased.

Was this what life is like for Geralt?

His heart hurts at the thought. It has been over a year since he saw him. He has tried not to focus on how miserable he is without him. But now alone in the forest and far away from his men he lets himself crumble.

He should have never left him. Right now he could be happily wandering between towns and learning how to better play the lute from other bards he met. He’s made the worst choice of his life coming here.

Julian feels heavy with guilt. He is at the forefront of the Great Cleansing as they are calling it. He feels bile rise in his throat as he thinks of the number of elves he has _cleansed_ from the Continent. He doesn’t even know how many. He can’t remember their faces. That was worse.

Tears fall hot and heavy down his face. He sob and screams and scares away the birds in the trees around him. He brandishes his sword and hits the tree trunk in front of him again and again until his arms hurt and the blade has become dull.

He sinks to the floor. Night is beginning to set. He should return back to camp where there would be a warm fire and food. Instead, he stays seated until his eyes drift shut.

* * *

_“Geralt!” he cries impatiently._

_“Yes?” Geralt looks at him with a glint in his eyes._

_“Where, pray tell, is my hat?” His hands are on his hips and he is standing by Roach with the saddlebags upended beside him._

_Geralt is leaning back against a log and shrugs innocently. “What hat?”_

_“My hat. The only hat I own.”_

_Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t recall.”_

_He squints at him and suddenly lunges for him. Geralt’s reflexes are fast and he manages to dodge the attack and grab his arms. They wrestle on the ground. Geralt is pinning him to the floor. He leans up and kisses him. Geralt’s hold on him relaxes and he uses this advantage to flip their positions and pin the other man to the floor._

_Pulling his hat from Geralt’s pocket he grins triumphantly. “Ah ha!” He places it back on his head with a grin. “I knew you hid it, you thief.”_

_Geralt smirks, “I have no idea how it ended up there.”_

_He hums disbelievingly and leans down to kiss him again. Geralt snatches the hat back of his head and throws it away with a laugh._

* * *

Julian wakes as the sun begins to rise. It was strange. His dream felt like a memory but he had never worn a hat like that and that was certainly never something he had done with Geralt. He figures his heart must be missing him so much he is inventing new memories to keep him going.

With solemn steps, he treks his way back to camp. He hands his sword off to be sharpened and makes his way to the command tent where his father and his lords would be planning the next battle.

“Julian. How kind of you to finally join us,” his father speaks with disgust when he enters the tent.

The lords stood around the table are silent and do not look at him. His brother does though. There is a smirk on his face as he takes in Julian’s dishevelled appearance.

“The elves have retreated into the city. We will flank them on either side so they cannot escape. We will make our attack at noon. Griffin will lead the main assault.”

His brother stands straighter at that, his chest puffing with pride. Julian contains an eye roll. Griffin has always been their parents favourite child. From the moment he was born Julian had been cast aside from his parents affections. He was too soft, too kind. Griffin was everything they wanted in a son. He was built broader than he was and looked the part of a mighty king. Even if Julian was better with a sword.

“You plan to attack at noon? And have this be a surprise attack?” Julian questions drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. “You may as well just send a raven to warn them of our advance. They’ll see us coming a mile away.”

Cedric grits his teeth and Griffin glares at his brother. “You know nothing of strategy. You cannot school me on battle when you would call your men to retreat from an attack we were winning.”

“Your plan is ridiculous-“

“Silence!”

Julian is glad for the table between him and his father. The untreated cut on his cheek stings.

“You will do as I say. You have made a mockery of this family for far too long. I have given you every chance to prove yourself of being worthy of my son and heir and you throw it in my face. If destiny were to bless me, she would have you perish in battle today so that my only true son might take the throne. Griffin will lead and you will follow. At least one of my sons will bring me honour.”

Silence rings through the tent. The lords gathered in between them both look at him to see how he will react and look at anything but him. As if they can give him privacy despite the fact his father had been so loud he is sure anyone around the tent would have heard.

He swallows. There are no tears in his eyes. No harsh comebacks. He has spent a lifetime knowing he held no worth in his father's eyes. To hear the truth confirmed was not as harrowing as he had feared.

If anything, it felt like relief.

He had made his peace with it long ago, he realises. There was no question about it anymore. King Cedric resents him and much as he did him.

“Right. Well.” He clears his throat. “I’ll see you later then. So I can follow. At least then you can’t blame me when it all goes to shit.”

He storms out of the tent. Breathing in the fresh air he feels a weight lift off his shoulders.

Julian wonders what Geralt is doing right now. If he is fighting a monster, travelling, fetching supplies. He collects his freshly sharpened sword and swirls it around a few times delighting in the noise it makes as it cuts through the air.

When this is all over he is going to find Geralt. He is going to survive because he refuses not to see him again.

* * *

He is part of the group attacking the town from the rear. They had to set off fairly early in the morning to circle the town and come back on themselves. Griffin is leading the affront from the other side of town. Julian isn’t even leading this part of town. It’s the Cintran prince who’s name he didn’t care to learn.

They wait in place for an hour. The sun reaches it’s highest point in the sky.

Julian can feel the low rumble on the ground moving to the beat of thousands of soldiers marching. A loud horn bellows across the valley. Suddenly they are moving.

He runs slower than those around him and is one of the last to enter the town. The company being led by the Cintran prince has almost immediately disbanded upon reaching the town and there is no formation to the attack.

Julian takes cover behind a horse cart to avoid the onslaught. This is worse than the battle the day before.

There are children in the town. It isn’t just the soldiers occupying the village but a whole community of elves. He feels sick to his stomach as one of his fellow soldiers cuts down a girl who couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

He has to stop this.

He has to stop this.

He moves from the cart and stabs his sword through the back of a man wearing Temerian colours. Then another. Soon the soldiers around him realise what he is doing and he is fighting off five of his own men. At least they aren’t searching out elves.

With every slash of his sword his mind races with what he can do. A block. He needs to make an escape. An overhead swing. He has to get the elves out of town. He spins and swings his sword into the man behind him.

There was a cave. Back the way they had entered town and far up the mountain path they had crossed. They could escape there.

The street is quieter now. The main siege is centred in town and he has cut down all the men that lingered on this back street. There is a woman leaning against the wall of a building pressing a hand to a slash on her leg.

Julian walk towards her and she flinches away from him and cries out in fear.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says as calmly as possible. “If you follow the path out of town and up to the mountains there is a cave. You will be safe there.”

She looks at him disbelievingly. “Go!” he urges and she scuttles away. She look over her shoulder every few seconds as if she believes he is tricking her so he can cut her down.

When she is safely out of sight he marches further into town. There is a young boy and girl. He tells them the same message and they run in the right direction.

He cuts down more of his men. A building is on fire and smoke is clouding the street. His eyes burn but he does not stop. With every second wasted an innocent elf dies.

An elf swings his sword and he blocks it.

“I’m on your side!” He yells, matching each blow of the blonde elf’s sword.

The elf doesn’t respond. His eyes are driven with determination, hatred and fear.

“There is a route out of town!” Julian tries again. “You can leave!”

The elf hits hard and Julian barely manages to block it. His own sword is nearly pushed into his own neck from the elf’s brute strength. “Liar.” He spits.

“It’s true.”

He pushes the elf off him and they swing at each other again. The elf to attack, Julian to defend. The elf is hitting less hard than before.

“Why should I believe you?”

“You have no reason to,” Julian admits. “But I implore you. You waste time. You could be getting your people to safety.”

The elf falters and he steps back. Sword still at the ready.

“Where,” he grits his teeth.

“Up the mountains of Dol Blathana. There’s a cave system. You can hide there. I’ve already sent some of your people that way.”

The man shakes his head. “You would have us leave and claim it as your own. This is our town.”

Julian sighs, “My people want the town and to be rid of you, yes. Would you rather die for your town or save your people?”

He glares at Julian. Then the street is being flooded with Cintran men. Julian jumps into action to defend the elf. He loses track of how many people he kills or wounds. The smoke aides his fight and soon he and the elf are left the only ones standing.

“Do you believe me now?”

“Yes,” the elf nods. “My name is Filavandrel.”

“Julian. You must go back the way I came and out of town.”

Filavandrel shakes his head, “I will not abandon my people. I will stay until they are safe.”

Julian nods and they go further into town. The battle is bloodiest here. The street is already littered with piles of the dead on both sides. He can’t hear over the noise and his voice is hoarse from yelling.

Filavandrel is always in his peripherals. Between the two of them, they send a lot of elves in the direction of safety. He doesn’t know how many make it but he hopes they all did.

That is when he sees Griffin.

His brother is ruthless in battle. He has always carried a mean streak but Julian has never seen him so careless. His brother runs his sword through a boy who is running to safety. He smiles.

Julian has never been so angry.

He stalks towards his brother and swings his sword hard and fast. It lands in his brother's shoulder.

Griffin yells in pain and swirls around swinging his sword. Julian blocks it easily. Griffin growls when he sees who his attacker is. His sword comes crashing down at Julian with fast hard swings. Julian manages to dodge and block all of them.

It is like being back in the training yard when they were boys with wooden swords. Griffin relies on brute strength. Julian is tactical. He knows when to lunge, when to block, how to use a mans strength against him. That was why he has always won.

The stakes have never been this high.

Griffin has never been trying to kill him.

Julian doesn’t want to kill his brother. Not really. But the only way to stop Griffin right now is to do that. Or at least seriously injure him.

“You traitor!” Griffin yells.

Julian says nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Filavandrel fending off two Temerian men. Half the buildings in the street are alight with fire and the smoke is so thick Julian can feel it settling on his skin.

He manages to land another blow to Griffin’s arm but it doesn’t impede him much.

Filavandrel is watching him. Behind him is a small cluster of children.

“Go!” Julian yells at him.

Reluctantly Filavandrel leaves Julian and leads the children to safety. The battle is still ongoing behind Griffin but there is no hope for that side of town. All of his father's men hold the strong point. There is nothing more they can do for the elves they couldn’t get to.

Griffin manages to hit Julian’s leg and he stumbled to his knees. He quickly whips his sword around and hits Griffin in the ankles. His brother tumbles to the floor. His sword is thrown to the side when his brother lunges at him. They wrestle on the ground, hitting into the bodies blocking the street.

Griffin punches Julian in the face again and again. Griffin knees him in the chest. He gets his hands around Julian’s throat and suddenly he can’t _breathe_.

Julian brings his knee up hard between his brother’s legs and he falls off him. This is his chance to escape. He sits up and gasps for breath. He tries to get to his feet on weak legs.

Griffin is suddenly holding a sword and swinging it up at him from the ground and it cuts across his side. Through his armour. Through his skin.

Julian cries out at the deep pain but doesn’t stop. He runs and stumbles as fast as his legs can carry him away from Griffin. Towards the elves. He presses a hand to his side and nearly vomits at the pain. There is so much blood. So much blood.

His vision goes hazy at the outskirts of town.

He stumbles through the forest. He doesn’t know if he is even following the path. He collapses to the floor and thinks of golden eyes that he will never see again.

* * *

_He’s running through hallways he doesn’t recognise but feel like home. There are grass stains on his knees and he runs on muscle memory. He doesn’t know where he’s going but his legs don’t stop running._

_He rounds a corner and sees a woman. She’s a lot taller than him. No, it’s him who is small._

_He can’t see her face. It’s blurry to him. Her pastel dress reaches her knees and he runs and throws himself at her legs and buries his face in her skirts._

_“She cursed me!”_

_The voice is his. He sounds squeaky and high pitched. A child’s voice._

_“Who?”_

_There’s hands in his hair and he relaxes under his mother's touch. He doesn’t know how he knows this is his mother. His own mother certainly looked and acted nothing like this when he was younger. But she is._

_“Anathea.”_

_There’s a man. He looks old and wrinkly. He makes him uncomfortable with the constant stares. The disapproving looks. He reminds him of his father, King Cedric. But this man is no king. Julian doesn’t know what he is._

_“You need to do a lot of growing up, boy, if you ever hope to fill Igor’s shoes.”_

_He shrinks under his gaze. The words hold weight and he doesn’t know why. Who is Igor?_

_The man walks out of the large mansion doors and the image fades._

_He’s looking into Geralt’s eyes. Looking up into them._

_Geralt looks younger – if possible, considering he doesn’t seem to age. His hair is shorter and the hardness that hangs on his face isn’t there. He is frowning though._

_“I can’t lose you.”_

_There’s tears in Geralt’s eyes and Julian wants to wipe them away but his body is not his own and he can’t make them move._

_“I’ll always be with you.” His mouth moves without his permission._

_He doesn’t know what he means. He doesn’t know why his hand is pressing to Geralt’s heart. Why that makes Geralt cry more._

_Nothing makes sense. It’s all so vivid. He’s never done any of this before. Has he?_

_He’s running again. Barefoot through a dusty street. Laughing at the dandelion he had stolen from a girl. He runs fast dodging the hands of his mother and the women who try to grab at him._

_There’s a man. And a horse._

_He runs to them. Presents the half-blown dandelion as a gift._

_“Make a wish.” He demands._

_The man in all black crouches down and takes the flower softly. There’s something familiar about him._

_“What would you recommend?”_

_He feels happy. Safe._

_“Something good.”_

_He’s coughing. It hurts and he knows the pain wrecks his chest but he can’t feel anything. His grasp on reality is so hazy._

_“I think I’m sick.”_

_His voice sounds foreign to his ears. Scratchy and strained._

_“No shit.”_

_Geralt is here. Julian can almost feel his touch as he flocks to his side._

_He feels strange. That feeling you get when you’re half awake and half asleep. The images and feelings passing by your mind. You feel full of sensations and they mix angrily with the feeling of your bedsheets and sunlight calling you back to the waking world._

_Julian doesn’t know which call to follow._

_He hates this dream. He doesn’t understand._

_But it’s so familiar he wants to know._

_“Think ‘m gonna die.”_

* * *

He wakes suddenly to pain in his side that burns. He grunts and tries to sit up but there’s a hand pushing him back down.

There’s no bedsheets. No mattress. There’s dusty ground underneath him and very little light. He blinks away the sleep.

“Where am I?” he croaks out.

“In the mountains outside Dol Blathana.” The voice is soft but Julian hears the apprehension behind it. It’s an elf who looks a little older than he does but that means nothing considering their long lives.

Then he remembers the battle. Filavandrel. Griffin and the sword his own brother slashed him with. He tries to sit up again and is pushed down.

“Careful. You will ruin the stitches. You’ve been out for three days. Stay here.”

She leaves and he’s left alone in this small alcove of the cave system. A few minutes later Filavandrel is walking to him.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

Filavandrel snorts, “Unsurprising.” He swallows and sits beside him. “My people owe you a great debt. Had you not helped we surely would not have survived.”

Julian shakes his head. “You owe me nothing. I should have done more.”

“You did what you could.”

“My father is King Cedric. I could have stopped all this so much sooner. I don’t know how many of your kind I’ve already killed. I don’t deserve your thanks.”

Filavandrel is silent. “I have also killed many men. We both have blood on our hands. I will not judge you for the sins of your father, nor the sins of your past. I know you fought by my side and I am grateful that there is at least one human who does not hate us.”

Julian looks away. He doesn’t deserve praise. He did what was right. He should have tried harder to stop it. Realised sooner that he was on the wrong side of history.

“I’m grateful you’ve looked after me,” Julian fidgets, “I’ll be out of your hair by the end of the day. I’m sure none of your people want to see me lingering around here.” His side hurts at the thought of even standing but he wouldn’t dare impose his presence on the people he has spent the last year slaughtering.

Filavandrel instantly shakes his head, “Not until you are healed, my friend.”

Julian settles onto the bedroll, still feeling unwelcome. Filavandrel stays by his side and tells him about how the rest of his people are settling into their new home. It’s not much of a home, Julian thinks, when he could have done more to save their actual town. But Filavandrel stresses his thanks that Julian had helped them get here.

It may be a cave, and it may be no place to live, but for now it means safety.

Filavandrel has to leave; he had become the leader of his people and they’re looking to him for guidance. The elf from earlier comes back and he finds out her name is Aga. She’s more comfortable around him now and over the course of a few days, Julian gets to know a few of the other elves.

He’s kept separate from most of them. But he still sees a fair few come and go. A couple give him wary glances, others glares, and others grateful looks. He recognises a few from the battlefield. Julian hadn’t expected so many to have made it – their population is still at its ends but he’s glad to see there’s still this many.

Most of the time, they speak Elder in front of him. Julian isn’t sure if that’s because it’s what they’re used to or if it’s because they don’t trust him. He knows a few phrases that he’s learnt from reading or during the war efforts but he’s mostly at a loss for what they speak about.

Aga is changing his bandages for the third time that day. The wound is a little infected, Julian guesses from the filth on Griffin’s sword. It sticks to the bandages and he hisses as it pulls at his skin. Aga curses in Elder under her breath at the sight of the wound.

“Would you teach me to speak Elder?” he asks tentatively as she applies a salve to the wound.

Aga freezes and looks at him with a frown, “Why do you want to know?” Her voice is tight and defensive and Julian instantly regrets asking.

“You all speak Elder, yes? Common isn’t your first language?”

“Yes,” Aga confirms distrustingly. “Common is yours, human, why do you want to know?”

Julian shrinks back a little, “It doesn’t look like I’m going to be leaving any time soon,” he gestures to his wound which she resumes treating. “I’d like to learn your language, if I’m to live with you.”

Aga frowns, this time it seems to be with confusion rather than anger, “Why would you not make us speak Common? You’re the prince leading the charge.”

Julian flinches, “You’re right. I can’t begin to explain how sorry I am, and I in no way deserve forgiveness. But I’ve realised it was wrong, and I want to make it right in whatever way I can. And that starts with not forcing you to speak my language.”

Aga is silent as she finishes rewrapping his bandages, “Iawn,” she nods.

Julian frowns, “Pardon?”

“Iawn,” Aga repeats, a small smile curling at her lips, “It means ‘alright’ in Elder.”

Julian smiles, “Iawn.”

* * *

Slowly, he picks up a few phrases. Learning a new language is a lot harder than he had anticipated but he has a lot of time on his hands. Aga is a very patient teacher and a good healer. Julian reckons he’s been here a month and the infection in his wound is gone. It’ll be another few weeks for the wound to heal over completely, it was deep after all.

He thinks about Geralt a lot. It’s been well over a year since he last saw him. He wonders if he’s stayed well away from the war that made its way across the Continent. Hopes he hasn’t been killed on a contract in some random town.

Julian knows that when he is able to travel again the first thing he will do is find him. He’s not going to go back to his family. They probably think he’s dead, anyway, he can only imagine the shit Griffin has said about him.

There’s only two reasonably outcomes for when he returns to civilisation; everyone shuns him for being an elf sympathiser and his family publicly disowns him, which would be bad for their reputation and leads him to the other outcome – that his family have announced his death. Julian isn’t sure which he prefers, either way he’ll no longer be tied to his family.

In saving the elves he’s given up his birthright. He won’t ever be King. It’s a massive weight off his shoulders.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on this because he hears low mutterings between Filavandrel and some of the other elves. They’re speaking just loud enough for him to hear.

“Maen nhw wedi cilio o’r dref,” a young elf speaks nervously. 

“Wyt ti’n siwr?” Filavandrel looks both eager and worried and Julian strays to hear more. He doesn’t understand what’s being said but he knows it’s serious. From the few words he knows he thinks they’re talking about the town of Dol Blathana. 

The young elf nods again, “Ie, fy brenin, maen nhw wedi llosgi’r cyfan i’r llawr.” 

“A chyrff y rhai a gollwyd gennym?” Filavandrel asks again. 

“Maen nhw dal yno.” 

Julian looks to Aga who is also obviously listening, “What are they saying?” he whispers.

Aga swallows, “Your people have left Dol Blathana. Burnt it all down. The bodies are still there.”

Julian feels sick. It was so easy to forget about the bodies you leave behind on battlefields but he doesn’t have that luxury anymore. It’s been nearly a month since the battle he can only imagine the state of the bodies left.

“Casglu’r holl bobl abl eu cyrff, byddwn yn claddu ein meirw,” Filavandrel commands and those around him immediately disperse. 

Julian looks to Aga again for confirmation. Aga sighs sadly, “We are all to go and bury the dead.”

“Let me help,” Julian stands on uneasy legs.

“No,” Aga pushes him back down.

“Os gwelwch yn dda,” Julian pleads in Elder. “Please,” he repeats in Common, “It’s the least I can do to help.”

* * *

Julian is at the back of the crowd making their way down the mountainside and back into the valley. It’s so much different than he remembers. There are no sounds of fighting, no smoke rising from fires.

If it weren’t for the burnt remains of buildings and bodies littering the floor there it would almost be a peaceful day. The elves cry in anguish as they come across their fallen loved ones, make their way to their ruined homes in the hope of finding belongings.

Julian walks silently through the streets as the crowd slowly departs. He can barely stand to look at the bodies. Some are burnt husks, a horrible sight to see and yet infinitely better than those untouched by flames left exposed to rot and scavenging animals.

He finds Filavandrel in the centre of town. This was where Griffin had nearly killed him. The other half of town, the side Julian never even made it to in the battle, is so much worse. Instead of the intermittent body, the streets are piled high.

It seems the soldiers had shoved as many bodies into piles as they could and set them alight before leaving.

“Mae’n ddrwg gen i, fy ffrind,” Julian says in broken elvish, _I’m sorry, my friend._

Filavandrel looks at him with none of the hatred Julian is expecting to see. He puts his hand on Julian’s shoulder, “You are one of us now.”

“They’ll be back,” Julian says after they let the silence hang between them, “Someone will come and claim this land. If your people are still here they’ll slaughter them again for it.”

Filavandrel sighs heavily, “I know.”

The elves begin to gather in the centre again, some clutching a few belongings that hadn’t been ransacked. Filavandrel orders everyone to start digging. There’s too many bodies to give each of them graves. They have to dig a mass grave.

They all pitch in but it takes hours and they’ll need to keep digging the next day for it to be big enough. Julian is fairly sure his wound has reopened but he digs through the pain. He digs non-stop for hours until his hands are full of blisters.

This was his fault. He should have done more. Should have done something sooner.

They stay in the town overnight, the stench of the bodies nearly overwhelming. Julian can’t block out the cries of the elves, can’t ignore the glares that get sent his way. It’s what he deserves at the very least.

He deserves to be amongst the bodies being buried.

The mass grave is finished by afternoon the next day. The next task is placing all the bodies inside. Julian wonders how many Griffin killed. Wonders how many elves he had killed before here that were in their own mass grave.

When they make it back to the cave Julian waits outside. The night air is freezing cold. There’s still mud and god knows what else on his hands, the blisters burning. He should leave. He’s taken advantage of the elves generosity for too long.

That’s where Aga finds him, some three hours later, “There you are,” she says softly, sitting next to him. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Julian draws his knees up to his chest and looks out across the valley. Beyond the forest that lies on the mountainside he thinks he can see the upturned earth covering the grave.

“Why?”

“No-one’s seen you since everyone got back.”

Julian scoffs, “I’m sure they’re all glad of that.”

Aga levels him with a stern look, “And what makes you think that?”

“They hate me,” he wrings his fingers together, “They have every reason to. I don’t blame them.”

Aga takes his hands and looks at the angry blisters with a tut, “They don’t hate you, half of us owe you our lives.”

Julian bites the inside of his cheek, “There’d be more of you if I did something sooner.”

Aga nods, “Aye, that’s true. But you did something. There’d be more of us dead if you didn’t.”

Julian huffs disbelieving. Aga swats his arm and Julian gapes at the angry look she gives him.

“Stop self-pitying, if we didn’t want you here we wouldn’t have found you on the side of the mountain and taken you all the way here, would we?”

Julian frowns, “I suppose not.”

“Now get your stubborn ass inside so I can check you over.”

Julian obediently follows her and finds Filavandrel waiting for them. “Julian,” he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees him, “We thought you’d left.”

Julian manages a weak smile, “Not yet.”

Aga treats his hand and patches up the wound on his side, admonishing him for not coming to her sooner. When she’s finished, she leaves him alone with Filavandrel.

“If you want me to leave, I understand,” Julian speaks up first.

Filavandrel sits next to him, “How many times must I say you are more than welcome here? I wanted to ask if you would like to move to the sleeping quarters with the rest of us.”

“Really?” He had been kept mostly separate from them so far.

“Yes. Those you saved would be glad to see you.”

So, Julian finds himself spending more time with the other elves. It takes a few days for them to get used to him but then he becomes as much a part of their community as anyone else.

They’re still burdened by loss and yet all of them are more welcoming than his own family had ever been. He thinks about Geralt, he would love it here, even if he doesn’t like being around people.

Julian misses Geralt so much it’s nearly unbearable. He has no idea where he is or how to even begin to find him when he leaves. He also hates to think about leaving, the elves have become something like family to him.

Filavandrel has the most glorious lute Julian has ever seen. He really doesn’t do it justice with his terrible playing. Filavandrel plays like the lute is an extension of himself where Julian still has to think about chord placements. It’s easier to play Filavandrel’s lute than his previous ones, it must be enchanted because he never misses notes even when he loses track.

He even learns Elder faster now that he’s with others. Aga is still a wonderful teacher but speaking Elder all day with the other elves instead of when Aga had spare time has improved his skills. Elder comes more naturally than Common does after he’s been there for three months.

His wounds are fully healed now. His heart calls out to find Geralt but he doesn’t want to leave. Julian plays a soft sad melody on the lute and Filavandrel watches him carefully.

“You wish to leave.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Julian’s fingers still on the lute. “My heart is torn between two places.”

Filavandrel tilts his head, “Here and?”

“Here and someone I left behind.”

Filavandrel nods in understanding, “You love them.”

“Very much.”

“Tell me about them.”

Julian tells him about Geralt from start to finish in probably too much detail. Filavandrel never stops him, though, he listens for the whole time. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay,” he finishes.

Filavandrel gives him a small smile, “My friend, we all live in a cave system. We can’t leave for our own safety, not for some time. You can leave, find the one you love. I would not confine you to this life.”

Julian frowns, “I don’t want to abandon you all.”

“You’re not,” Filavandrel assures, “You will never be happy here. That’s all I want for my people, and you’re one of us now and forever, I want you to be happy.”

Julian tears up and haphazardly wipes at the tears that drop, “Thank you. Can I keep your lute?”

Filavandrel laughs and takes the lute, “Absolutely not.”

“Worth a try,” Julian smiles.

* * *

It takes another week for Julian to work up the courage to actually leave. There’s a lot of tearful goodbyes and he feels lonelier than ever as he makes his way down the mountain alone.

The sun beats down on him as he makes his way past the remains of Dol Blathana and out onto the open road. He has no idea where to start but his gut tells him to head south.

He has no coin nor weaponry, he sleeps on the road and is thankful that the nights aren’t too cold and lives of whatever berries he can scrounge. Julian reaches a town after a few days and the sight of actual humans is enough to turn his stomach.

All he can think about when he looks at them is the soldiers he saw slaying elves. Julian takes a moment to gather his strength and walks into the nearest inn. There’s a slowly growing evening crowd, perfect for a bard if he had a damn instrument. He saunters up to the barkeep, “Tell me, good sir,” he adopts a charming manner, flashing his best smile, “Have any Witchers been through these parts lately?”

The barkeep looks at him oddly, “You got a monster problem, boy?”

“Something like that.”

“You’d be best off asking one of them hunters,” the barkeep shrugs and points out a group of large men at one of the tables, “Ain’t no Witchers round here. Won’t be for a while, I reckon.”

Julian fidgets nervously, trying to keep his smile on his face, “Why’s that?”

“Haven’t you heard. They sacked that Witchers place up north. Good riddance, if you ask me. Won’t be seeing any Witcher scum again round here.”

Julian swallows and feels like the world is collapsing in on him. He mutters a thank you and hastily leaves the inn. He makes it halfway down the street when his stomach empties onto the floor.

Geralt couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be.

Besides, Geralt wouldn’t be there in summer. He only went in winter. But he’s been gone this past winter what if it happened then? The world blurs and Julian holds himself against a wall.

His chest feels tight. Gods, he never should have left to go help in that fucking war. This was all his fault. Geralt was dead.

Julian pushes off from the wall and races out of town. He runs until his legs burn and his lungs can’t suck in enough breath to keep him going. What was the point in going on if Geralt was dead?

Geralt was the only thing that had kept him alive all this time. He was lost without him.

Julian screams his throat hoarse and then walks blindly. He doesn’t keep track of time. If he wasn’t such a coward he’d do the deed himself but instead he keeps walking and travelling until some monster or bandit kills him.

It must have been close to two weeks when the road he’s been following leads through a town. He has half a mind to ask where he is. The merchant he goes to looks at Julian with disgust, and then he can feel all the grime layering his skin and the grease in his hair.

“You’re in Lyria, now piss off.”

Julian doesn’t stay in the town any longer. He finds a river a mile away and decides to wash off the grime from his skin and try his best to clean his clothes. It’s futile without soap and the water is cold enough to leave his teeth chattering.

He wades into the water and ducks underneath, scratching at his scalp to wash out the grease as best as he can. Julian briefly plays with the idea of never resurfacing. Letting the water fill his lungs but, again, he can’t bring himself to do anything.

He sits on the riverbank as he waits for his clothes to dry off. Without Geralt, he has two options, go back to the elves or go back to his family. One of those options is clearly preferable but something is pulling him further south.

Julian follows his gut and travels further into Lyria against his better judgement. He sees a sign leading to Rivia and can’t help but laugh. He’d forgotten Rivia was actually a real place and not something tagged onto Geralt’s name.

Geralt isn’t even from Rivia. Julian remembers when Geralt had told him he wanted to be called some long pompous name a knight would have and his tutor chose Geralt of Rivia instead.

With no real logic behind it, Julian follows the sign. Maybe being in Rivia will make him feel closer to Geralt.

After a day, night is beginning to set and Julian realises he should make camp soon, he smells cooking meat on the air. His stomach grumbles and he follows the smell.

If he’s lucky whoever is cooking will be willing to share their catch. If not he hopes at the very least they’ll share their fire.

He moves through the forest making a lot of noise in the thick underbrush. He reaches the clearing and pauses.

There, looking at him with an equally shocked face, is Geralt.

Julian takes a step forward, he must be delirious from malnourishment. And then Geralt is crossing the distance of the camp and holding his face. His eyes bore into his own.

“Julian?” Geralt asks sounding wrecked.

At the sound of his voice, all the tension Julian has held for over a year slips off his shoulder and he sinks into his touch. “Geralt,” he reaches up and covers Geralt’s hand on his face.

“I thought you were dead,” Geralt chokes out, pressing a desperate kiss to his lips which Julian happily reciprocates, “They told me you were dead.”

Julian huffs a laugh, “They told me you were dead,” he counters. “I’m not dead, my love, I promise.”

Geralt nods rapidly and then wraps his arms around his waist and lifts him from the ground, burying his face in Julian’s neck and breathing deeply. Julian squeezes his eyes shut, hugging Geralt as hard as he can.

He’s home, he’s finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha yes Julian isn't dead! I was gonna have the reunion at the end of the last chapter but I decided to be evil I'm sorry!
> 
> my translations for elder is just Welsh google translate:
> 
> Iawn - Alright  
> Maen nhw wedi cilio o’r dref - They’ve retreated from the town  
> Wyt ti’n siwr? - Are you sure?  
> Ie, fy brenin, maen nhw wedi llosgi’r cyfan i’r llawr - Yes, my king, they’ve burnt it all to the ground  
> A chyrff y rhai a gollwyd gennym? - And the bodies of those we lost?  
> Maen nhw dal yno - They’re still there  
> Casglu’r holl bobl abl eu cyrff, byddwn yn claddu ein meirw - Gather all the able bodied people, we will bury our dead.  
> Os gwelwch yn dda – Please  
> Mae’n ddrwg gen i, fy ffrind – I'm sorry, my friend
> 
> Let me know what you thought <3


	9. ever faithful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a little late, its getting to be a habit of mine to post at 3am! i wrote this all today bc I thought it was Wednesday and I realised it was in fact already Thursday but I didn't want to make you guys wait!
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Geralt stares at the man who keeps prattling on about the after-effects of the war, like he hasn’t just delivered the most devastating news. He doesn’t even know what to say. He can’t say anything. He’s frozen in place, hand still holding the piece of meat he was about to eat.

Julian had been killed.

Of course he had, it was a fucking war. Geralt should have burnt that letter and whisked Julian off to Kaer Morhen with him.

He wants to cry, rage, scream and lash out. He thinks about how it happened. Was it quick? Was it an elf? This is the first time he’s not seen him die and it’s somehow worse because it’s so easy to conjure a thousand images each worse than the last.

“You alright, son?” the old man asks, finally noticing Geralt’s unnaturally still state.

Slowly, Geralt’s body starts working again. He nods and takes the last bite of deer meat. He stands up and grabs his swords, it’s all he has after all.

“Keep the fire,” he mutters and stalks off into the woods ignoring the calls of the duo.

Geralt walks and walks with no direction until his feet hurt and then he walks some more. He’s lost everything. Kaer Morhen was gone, the one place he wasn’t scorned, Julian was gone, the one person who loved him. What was the point in living?

He dares to hope that Julian will come back. One day. With a different name and a different past and maybe, just maybe, he’ll find Geralt again.

That thought is the only thing keeping him going.

He’s in Rivia, ironically. He hopes his namesake will make the people here more inclined to offer him contracts and not kick him out because of it. Or they’d hate him even more for the reminder that one of their own could be a mutant.

Geralt makes camp the next night. He’s seen signs for a town he can travel to tomorrow. Hopefully, they’ll have a contract. He builds a quick fire and hunts down a rabbit.

The rabbit is nearly cooked when he hears someone coming through the forest. They’re alone by the sounds of it and he tenses prepared for a fight. And then they stumble out of the forest and into the clearing.

It’s Julian.

Geralt freezes. He thinks he might be hallucinating or finally gone mad. If that’s the case then he doesn’t care; at least he’s seeing him again, even if it’s his imagination.

Julian steps forward and Geralt crosses the camp. He reaches out and touches his face. He’s solid. He’s real.

“Julian?”

He can’t believe his eyes or his luck. Julian is here in front of him. Geralt thinks his heart has stopped at the sight of him.

“Geralt,” Julian reaches up to cover his own hands.

He hasn’t heard his voice in over a year. He thought he would never hear it again.

“I thought you were dead,” he chokes out, his throat feels like it might close up. He can’t hold back anymore and kisses him desperately. The shock begins to wear off and he relaxes for the first time since he saw Julian ride away. They break the kiss and he looks at him in awe, still not quite believing this is real. “They told me you were dead,” he repeats uselessly.

Julian laughs and it warms him from the inside out. “They told me you were dead. I’m not dead, my love, I promise.”

Geralt nods, overwhelmed by the sight of him. He isn’t dead, it repeats over in his mind with reverence. He wraps his arms around his waist and holds him so tight he lifts him. He tucks his face into his neck and breathes in his scent until the smell of chamomile and earth and Julian is coursing through his bloodstream.

He doesn’t let go until he smells the rabbit above the fire burning and he rushes to take it off the flames. “Want some dinner?” he offers sheepishly. The meat is charred but Julian had felt much lighter than he remembers so he needs to eat. He considers going to hunt more but that would mean leaving Julian and he can’t bring himself to just yet.

Julian nods eagerly, “I haven’t eaten in days.”

They sit beside the fire chewing on the tough meat. Geralt is holding Julian close to his side, practically in his lap, he’s afraid if he lets go he’ll disappear.

“How did you end up here?”

Julian chews slowly, “When I got home I found out we weren’t being attacked we were going to fight the elves.” He pauses and a pained expression crosses his face. “They told me how the elves were evil and we worked our way east slaughtering them all. I knew it was wrong but I convinced myself I was doing what was right.”

Geralt is silent. He had heard all about the elves being slaughtered, and he knew first hand what it was like to be wanted dead by humans. He doesn’t want to judge Julian for his admission but he can’t help the twist in his gut.

“After about a year I came to my senses,” Julian continues. “I fought my own people, I helped the elves. Griffin stabbed me but the elves that escaped healed me and took care of me until I was well enough. And then I left. I don’t know how many elves I killed,” he whispers his final words, looking at his hands and rubbing at the skin.

Geralt takes his hand, “You did what you had to do. And you did the right thing in the end.”

Julian smiles ruefully, “I wish people would stop telling me that.”

“You said you thought I was dead?” Geralt moves the topic along.

He’s woefully unequipped to help with whatever Julian is going through. He doesn’t need to smell the scent of shame to see the guilt written all over him. This isn’t something he can overcome in one night, there will be plenty of time in the future for them to talk about it when Geralt has an idea of what to say.

Julian huffs, “In Lyria I asked after you and I got told Kaer Morhen was destroyed. I guess I just assumed you would have been there.”

Geralt nods, “I was. I was the only one who made it out.” He clenches his jaw, he can’t rid the images of young boys bleeding out, the sound of final screams or the feeling of darkness and the walls caving in when Vesemir sent him down the tunnel.

“I’m sorry,” Julian turns and cups his cheek. He’s so much better at comforting, Geralt wishes he could do the same.

Wordlessly, he tugs at Julian until he’s sat in his lap with his legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders. Geralt buries his face in Julian’s chest and Julian nuzzles into the top of his head. They’re safe. They’re both alive and together, and he has no idea what the future holds but he can hold onto that.

* * *

They make it to the town the next day and thankfully they have quite a few easy contracts. Neither of them have enough coin to afford staying at the inn but the nights are still warm enough to camp. Geralt works his way through the contracts, even the ones that turn out to be stray dogs instead of monsters. Julian performs singing acapella in the tavern, it doesn’t make as much money as with an instrument but it gets them enough coin for a meal.

They travel from town to town and it’s so easy to fall into their old rhythm. Geralt can almost forget that they were ever separated in the first place. That is until Julian wakes up in the night from nightmares.

The war may be over for him but it lives on in his mind. Geralt wishes he could do more than just hold him tight and promise it will be okay.

He has his own nightmares, though less frequent. Julian returns the favour in kind and holds him until his mind quietens. They’re two broken people desperately trying to sew themselves back together, Geralt just hopes they have enough thread.

* * *

After a month, Geralt has enough coin to buy a new horse and Julian has enough to buy a lute that looks as old as he is. He plays a melody Geralt hasn’t heard beside their campfire, the music echoing off the branches and he thinks the final piece of his heart has returned at the sound.

“I have something for you,” Julian smiles.

“Oh?”

“Do you remember before I left? I said I had a song I’d sing for you when I got back?”

Geralt casts his mind back to the inn they stayed at before Julian left and the melody he had been humming. The same melody he now plays on the lute. A smile pulls at his face, “Of course.”

“Well, this is it.”

_I used to always say_

_I was good with people’s names_

_Now I’ve forgotten everyone’s_

_But yours, and you’re to blame_

_On a desert island_

_Oh, you’d ask me what I’d take_

_But you know that decision_

_Is an easy one to make_

_If everybody in the world_

_Was standing in a line_

_And I could talk to anyone_

_Wouldn’t waste nobody’s time_

_Cause I choose you_

_Out of billions of people_

_We got it down to two_

_I choose you_

_Darling it’s all adding up_

_The math ain’t hard to do_

_Cause I choose you_

Geralt moves over and plants a soft kiss on Julian’s lip and receives a happy hum from him. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you more.”

* * *

“I need to go back to Temeria,” Julian announces and Geralt chokes on his ale.

“Why? They think you’re dead,” Geralt splutters, for a moment he thinks Julian wants to reclaim his place.

Julian runs his hand through his hair, “Them thinking I’m dead is too easy for them. I want them to know I’m alive. And I’m going to give it all up.”

“Okay then.”

They make their way to Temeria. Julian asks him to wait just outside the city and makes his way to the castle on his own. Geralt wants to go with him but he knows this is something Julian must do alone.

A few hours later Julian reappears. The weight that he had been carrying since they were reunited is gone, and even the heaviness he had from before seems missing. He looks younger, lighter, like who he was meant to be if he had truly been born into the wealthy family he had pretended to be from when they met.

Julian swings himself up onto Roach and sits behind him. Geralt urges Roach forward and they ride away from Temeria, a kingdom he will happily never return to.

* * *

“Would it kill you to not get injured once in a while?” Julian reprimands, sewing closed a deep wound on Geralt’s thigh.

“Yes. If I didn’t get injured then I would be dead.”

Julian gives him a long-suffering look and wraps the wound in a bandage, topping it off with a kiss. “All better.”

Geralt stands, hissing slightly at how it pulls on the wound.

“Oi, none of that,” Julian puts Geralt’s arm over his shoulder to alleviate the weight and guides him to the bed. “You’ll mess up my perfect stitches.”

“My apologies,” Geralt smirks, tugging Julian to lie next to him.

Julian squawks, “I haven’t even washed my hands,” he shoves his bloody hands in Geralt’s face as proof and he swats them away.

“Don’t care,” Geralt mumbles, pulling Julian to his side so he can hold him close as he drifts off to sleep.

“You brute,” Julian replies with no heat in his voice, snuggling into Geralt’s side.

* * *

The bar they’re in quietens suddenly. Geralt looks up and he knows who is about to come into view before he even sees them.

“Eskel?”

The other Witcher’s surprise at seeing him is clear across his face. That’s not the only thing, large angry scars now line his face. They still look fresh, newly healed over, and it doesn’t escape Geralt’s notice that Eskel is angling that side away from sight as best as he can.

“Geralt,” Eskel smiles, sitting at the table across from them. “Is this…?”

“Julian,” Julian leans across the table to shake Eskel’s hand, “Pleasure to meet you.”

Eskel smiles a little disbelievingly, catching Geralt’s eye to silently ask if he’s being truthful. Geralt gives a nod to confirm.

“Vesemir said you made it out but no one’s heard from you,” Eskel reveals, his long absences are no longer a source of worry after all this time but it was different now Witchers were being actively hunted.

Geralt’s brain catches up with him. Vesemir was still alive. He wonders if anyone else made it out and how in the hell he managed to survive.

“After everything that happened, I stayed away,” he explains with a guilty look. He didn’t even think there was anything to return to.

Eskel nods in understanding, “Kaer Morhen isn’t gone. It’s burnt to hell and crumbling but a handful of us still go each winter. We’re trying to fix it up.”

“We can help,” Julian pipes up, “I’m pretty crafty.”

Geralt is about to say that humans aren’t welcome at Kaer Morhen when Eskel replies first.

“We’d be happy to have any help.”

“But humans,” Geralt trails off, not wanting to outright say Julian isn’t allowed.

Eskel shrugs, stealing Geralt’s ale and taking a gulp, “As I said, it’s only a handful of us. No tutors, no kids. They probably won’t like it at first but Julian doesn’t stand a chance against ten Witchers. Not that you’d try and attack us,” he shoots a grin at Julian.

Julian quickly shakes his head, “Of course not,” he says deadly serious, “I will be but silent help in the restoration of your ancestral home.”

Geralt snorts, “As if you could ever be silent.”

Julian gasps in over the top offence and Eskel makes a gagging noise, “Gods, I thought hearing Geralt be lovesick and pining all winter was bad, this is horrible. I need another ale.”

“That’s not even your ale,” Geralt points out.

Eskel just smirks and downs the rest of it.

* * *

Eskel is quieter than he used to be. He was always one of the quieter ones but he was confident and boastful about his looks. Now, Geralt can see the way he’s retreated in on himself. He’ll laugh loudly and look like he’s second-guessing himself. Anyone he speaks to that isn’t them he’s already bracing for the looks of horror.

It’s unsettling to see such a change. Eskel had only briefly gone over the events, something about a Child Surprise who was born under a black sun. The guarded way he answers is enough for Geralt not to pry.

He remembers when he showed up at Kaer Morhen the first time after Dandelion died and how he extended the same kindness to him.

It takes about two weeks of travelling together for Eskel to realise Julian isn’t going to treat him like other humans. When they camp outside of town Geralt thinks he’s almost his old self again.

They’ve all changed, for better or worse Geralt isn’t quite sure, but at least they have each other.

* * *

“Lambert’s a prick,” Geralt warns when they near the gates. “But that’s just how he is.”

Julian laughs, “I’m sure I can handle it.”

“He’s horrible,” Eskel agrees, “The biggest brat I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll have met worse.”

“And the others might not like having you around at first,” Geralt pushes open the gate. He doubts any of them would try and attack Julian but he’s prepared just in case.

Julian follows them inside, “Really, I’ll be fine.”

Geralt looks up at the keep like he’s seeing it for the first time. The stables have been rebuilt, he remembers what happened to his last Roach there and feels sick. With slow steps he guides the new Roach into the stables to join the other horses and promises her she won’t befall the same fate.

The keep itself is badly burned and falling apart. Large piles of fallen brick line the building but the courtyard has been cleared. There are holes in the walls, and some areas he can tell have been rebuilt. The bodies that had been left are also gone.

It’s a ruin now. He can’t even see any lights inside. If he didn’t know it was occupied he would assume it was completely abandoned.

“We use the small hall for mealtimes now,” Eskel says, leading their little group through the halls Geralt grew up that now look so different. “We’re using the large hall as an extra sparring space for after the snows fall.”

Geralt can hear the chatter coming from the hall. Part of him expects to open the doors and see the loud bustling room like he used to, instead it’s five Witchers sat around a small table.

Lambert is the first to stand from the table, giving both him and Eskel quick hugs. His eyes land on Julian and narrow, “A human?”

“Geralt’s human,” Eskel smirks.

Lambert’s eyes go wide, “Oh,” then he breaks into a wicked grin, “I was starting to think Geralt made you up. There’s no way he could bag a prince.”

Julian laughs, “Not a prince anymore, but I can assure you I am real.”

“They’re so in love, it’s disgusting,” Eskel mutters, moving past them to pour himself a bowl of soup.

The other Witchers have stood too and are looking at them both with guarded expressions. Vesemir approaches first and the others watch carefully for his judgement of the human in their midst.

“So, this is Julian?” Vesemir asks as he reaches out to shake Julian’s hand. Geralt has never told Vesemir that much about Julian beyond a few details when they were both sword instructors. But he knows that hiding anything from him is useless and Vesemir probably knew about Julian since the first winter he returned after meeting him.

Julian hesitates then does so, giving a firm nod. Geralt can see the tightness in how he holds himself and the slight narrowing of his eyes, a vastly different reaction to his meeting the others.

“That I am,” Julian says with none of his usual flourish.

“Right,” Vesemir nods, “You can have your pick of rooms.”

The other Witchers drop their defensive stance at Vesemir’s approval and Geralt breathes a sigh of relief.

Geralt leads Julian through the halls. Dust has already gathered along most of the keep, without anyone here year-round there’s been no one to manage the upkeep. Some walls have large holes in them and Geralt can see outside, the fierce winds winding through the corridor.

There’s bloodstains on the floors. Some larger than others. They’ve been scrubbed but the stain is deep in the wood and if Geralt concentrates he can still smell it.

Julian doesn’t remark on the state of the castle but Geralt can smell the sadness on him; he isn’t sure if he’s sad he’s been brought here or sad for the state of it. He hopes it’s the latter.

They finally reach the second level of rooms. The heating from the hot springs still seems to be working but is less effective now with half the keep damaged. “This room suitable?” he asks, setting down their bags.

Julian walks into the large room and sits on the double bed giving a few bounces. The room is one of the least damaged with only a crack in the window and furniture overturned from being ransacked.

“It’s certainly a fine establishment,” Julian smiles, there’s no mockery in his voice, “Just needs a bit of a loving touch.”

Geralt huffs and joins him on the bed, “How come you don’t like Vesemir?”

Julian stills, “What do you mean?”

“Just then, you don’t like him. Why?”

Julian sighs heavily, “I know he means a lot to you, and saved your life. I just, you’ve told me about growing up here and he was one of the people who put you through all that.”

“He was one of the better ones.”

“I know,” Julian placates, “But he was still part of it. I’ll try and give him the benefit of the doubt but I don’t know if I can like someone who participated in your trauma.”

“I’m not traumatised,” Geralt snaps.

Julian stills and his shoulders sink, “I know,” he says quietly, unconvincingly.

Geralt nods once then busies himself righting the overturned furniture. The silence is unbearable and he leaves the room. His mind is racing. He wasn’t traumatised. He could handle everything just fine.

He storms around the keep, taking note of areas that need fixing up and promptly forgetting them in the whirlwind of thoughts. And then he runs into none other than Vesemir himself.

His first instinct is to straighten himself and wipe any emotions that may have seeped into his face away. The second is to feel relief at seeing the man alive. He hadn’t got a chance to talk to him properly when they arrived and he had thought him dead these past years.

“Geralt,” Vesemir greets with a searching look. Even if his face is impassive Vesemir is sure to smell the emotion on him. “Is this about Julian?”

Geralt curses that he’s so easy to read. If he were a boy he would be punished for such openness and he’s glad he’s older than that now. “No,” he lies.

“He doesn’t like me,” Vesemir shrugs, “Most humans don’t.”

Geralt shuffles uneasily, “It isn’t because he doesn’t like Witchers,” he defends.

Vesemir raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“He,” Geralt flounders, knowing he really shouldn’t be saying this but Vesemir’s gaze is keeping him in place. “He doesn’t like you because you were a tutor. You brought me here.”

Vesemir nods, “I see. He has a fair point.”

Geralt doesn’t understand how he can sound so casual. “What?” he breathes, he was preparing for Vesemir to kick Julian out of the keep, not agree with him.

“A Witcher is no life, and even as only a fencing instructor I know I was harsh on you boys,” Vesemir continues. Geralt think he might be speaking to a doppler. “You are a fine Witcher and it’s my honour to have taught you, Geralt, but if Visenna hadn’t left you I never would have claimed you as my Surprise.”

Geralt’s entire perception of his life is shifting. As a child, he had resented Vesemir for a long time for bringing him here. He hadn’t wanted to blame his mother, still believing that it was a mistake and she would come back for him. After he realised she wouldn’t, he shifted his blame to her. Vesemir had still been harsh and just as much a part of forging him into a Witcher as those who gave him the trial potions.

He respected the man, looked up to him, but he had never liked him until the summer of the sacking when they became true equals.

Vesemir puts his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, “I’m sorry for the past. Go make up with Julian. I never had to deal with relationship drama when you were teenagers, I refuse to start now.”

* * *

“I don’t know,” Julian holds the sword loosely in his grip, “I doubt I can even keep up. I’ll just watch.”

“C’mon,” Lambert insists, nudging Julian’s shoulder. Then he looks at Geralt, “I thought you told me he was good with a sword.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Julian snaps and Lambert’s grin grows.

“Alright, alright,” Lambert laughs, “Then put your money where your mouth is.”

Geralt watches as Julian pauses and then joins Lambert in the courtyard. He can see his discomfort and wonders if he should intervene but they begin to spar before he can. Julian keeps his movements defensive, skilled and fast and there’s plenty of opportunities for him to move to attack but he doesn’t.

As the fight progresses, Julian relaxes somewhat. Still, Lambert attacks and he defends. He had sparred with him before and Julian was a skilled attacker, but since he came back from the war, he rarely held a sword and when he did spar with Geralt he never attacked.

Lambert goads Julian to get him to attack but he remains resolute. He keeps up with Lambert with every step and he can see Lambert’s face slowly morphing into respect.

After some time, they call it quits; Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lambert end a fight that easily. They shake hands and he hears Lambert praise Julian’s skills. Frankly, it’s a little weird to see him being so nice.

He narrows his eyes at his brother, “What are you up to?”

Lambert gives him an innocent look, “Whatever do you mean?” Geralt glares and Lambert laughs loudly and throws his arm over his shoulders, “Hey, I’m just on my best behaviour for our guest.”

“That’s not like you,” Geralt mutters, shoving him off.

Julian watches with an amused smile that makes his heart flutter. “I’m gonna find your library.”

“Want me to show you the way?” he offers.

Lambert swings his sword through the air, “Too scared you’ll lose our bet again? Knew it.”

Geralt sends him a scathing glare and Julian snorts a laugh. “I’m sure I’ll find it just fine.” He kisses him before he goes ignoring the ‘ew’ from Lambert. This was why he’d never introduced anyone to his brothers before.

* * *

A few other Witchers trickle in before the snows block the path up the mountain. They all give Julian a wide berth but he fits in with Eskel and Lambert like he’d known them his whole life. Geralt thinks about how much he’s told them all about each other and figures it’s basically close enough.

He hasn’t told Eskel or Lambert that Julian is also Dandelion and Buttercup. He doesn’t know how. As far as they’re aware he’s been in love with three separate people.

It’s never the right time.

Julian slowly warms up to Vesemir. Their love of academia is finally what bridges the gap and Geralt is glad to see them accept each other. He didn’t realise how much it meant to him that Vesemir and Julian got on with each other.

After everything, Geralt is sure he’d be happy to stay at Kaer Morhen with the lot of them and keep his loved ones close for the rest of time. Julian is sparring with Eskel in the courtyard, both of them laughing at the taunts they give with Lambert yelling encouragement from the sidelines. Julian catches his eye and sends him the biggest grin. Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever forget this moment.

* * *

They have to leave eventually. Spring calls them back to the Path and they linger a little longer than they usually would, unwillingly to give up the winter. Soon it’s just Geralt and Julian again.

It’s strange not having his rowdy brothers around, he can freely show Julian affection without having someone tease him relentlessly for it. He misses them but he’s glad to have the peace that comes with the knowledge that it’s just the two of them.

Geralt is sharpening his swords while Julian reads through a book of poetry and sighs wistfully, “I wish I could have gone to university.”

“What for? You know how to read.”

Julian shrugs, putting away his book and rolling to lie on his stomach, “I had tutors brought to the castle, sure, the best in the land. But I never went anywhere. And they taught me what my parents wanted me to know, not what I did.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I wanted to know how to play the lute.”

“You already know,” Geralt smirks.

Julian rolls his eyes, “I first played the lute on the day I met you. I taught myself while we were on the road together.”

Geralt hadn’t been able to tell, Julian’s skill on the lute was no less than what it used to be and he wonders if muscle memory extended beyond sword fighting to lute playing as well. “What else?”

“I want to learn about poetry, and philosophy and music theory. I know bits from things I’ve read but not as much as if I’d gone to a place like Oxenfurt.”

Geralt sets aside his swords and joins Julian on the bedroll, “University is overrated.”

“Oh, and how would you know?”

“Because everything you want to know you can learn yourself for much cheaper.”

Julian laughs and rolls his eyes, “All about coin with you,” he teases, pressing a kiss to his lips.

* * *

The decades seem to fly by. The worry Geralt constantly holds that he’ll lose Julian to a monster or illness again fades into a flicker.

This is the longest he’s ever been able to spend with him and he cherishes every moment he gets with him. He knows any of them might be his last.

He used to love summer because it meant being with Julian, but now he gets him in the winter too. Kaer Morhen is no longer filled with tortured screams, it’s filled with laughter and song. He thinks he might prefer winter now because it means his family is back together and happy.

Julian still wakes with nightmares sometimes. The war is as deep a part of him as his bones but he can talk about it now. Geralt slowly learns about what he did, learns about Griffin and about the elves. Small parts are revealed over the years but he’s sure that he’ll never know the full story.

Geralt isn’t the only one comforted by Julian’s presence. His brothers are calmer with him around then he’s ever seen them. Julian is a wave of solace around the keep and he laughs at his past self for ever thinking it would be anything else.

* * *

“Geralt?” Julian whispers tucked against his side in the single bed at the inn.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t think I can do this for much longer.”

Geralt snaps his eyes open and peers down at him, quelling the panic that rises in his chest. “What do you mean?”

Julian traces his fingers along the scar on Geralt’s chest. “I’m getting old. Not old old, I’m only fifty,” he pauses, a deep frown settling in between his eyebrows. “But sleeping outside, travelling all the time, too small beds. I can’t keep it up much longer.”

Geralt forces himself to be calm, “You’re leaving me?”

Julian sits up, “What? No. I meant we could settle down.”

“Witchers don’t settle down.” They don’t, but he pictures living a simple ordinary life with Julian. One with no monsters or travelling, just being together and safe and he can’t deny how much he wants that.

“I’m not asking you to give it all up,” Julian sits more comfortably against the headboard. “I just thought maybe I could find a place. We could live there together and when there’s a contract nearby you could go off. Or you travel as much as you want and come to visit me sometime.”

Geralt thinks it would be impossible for him to settle for just ‘visiting’ Julian ‘sometime’. The first option could work. He pictures a place he could call home, a place he knows Julian would be safe. It fills his heart with warmth and he’s already eager.

“Where would you like to go?”

Julian relaxes and shrugs a little, “I’m not sure. Maybe the coast? I’ve only seen it a handful of times.”

Geralt nods, running through all the coastal towns he’s visited. “What about the coast between Kovir and Creyden?”

The coastal path joined the two kingdoms and there were plenty of mountain ranges within a week’s ride and they were always a hotbed for contacts. It was also far enough north that Kaer Morhen was within easy reach.

Julian nods, “Sounds perfect.”

Slowly, they make their way north. Julian insists there’s no rush, he’s not walking with a cane just yet. So, they take contracts as normal and by the time autumn is settling over the lands, they finally make it to the border of Kovir.

Geralt can already smell the sea air a few miles before they reach the coast. The salt fills his lungs and Julian has a bounce in his step. For a moment he can forget that he’s a Witcher.

They find a coastal town to stay in for a few nights while they try to find a property. Geralt has been taking on as many contracts as possible, even finding work that involved no monsters and just needed a strong pair of hands. Julian performs as much as he is able and volunteers to help at taverns they stay in for coin or free board. They’ve done everything in their power to save their coin.

It should be enough for a small house. If not, then it would be enough for rent. Geralt is willing to build a house for Julian from scratch if that’s what it takes.

Julian asks around and finds a landlord who owns a few properties in the area. The man seems wary of Geralt when Julian brings him to their table.

“Geralt, this is Eryk. What would you like for dinner, my good sir, our treat.”

Eryk perks up at a free meal and slowly adjusts to Geralt’s presence. Geralt can still smell his fear but is grateful that the man isn’t cursing him out or denying them the chance to buy a house because he’s a Witcher.

Julian spends the evening charming Eryk and asking about prices. Of the ten properties he owns, Geralt knows they can afford three outright, and they can afford rent on another five. He hopes the three they can afford are good enough for Julian.

The next day Eryk takes them from house to house. Most of those he owns are in the town. A few are in the next town over. And then he brings them to the most remote house. It’s several miles outside of town with no other houses nearby. It’s right on the coastline with less than a minute walk to the beach.

Sea air whips his hair and Geralt can only imagine the weather they would need to brace for in winter but he can tell Julian is set on this house. He looks at the little cottage with unrestrained awe. It’s the smallest of the houses they’ve seen – there’s one bedroom, a small living room adjacent to a small kitchen. The land they would own circles the house and Julian is already talking about planting vegetables and growing his own garden.

“How much?” Geralt asks Eryk as Julian races back inside to look again. They had already visited the houses within their price range and they were nothing compared to this cottage.

Eryk snorts at Julian’s antics. “Hundred and fifty bezants a month, or fifteen thousand outright.” It’s a much lower price than what it’s truly worth. Geralt doesn’t know why Eryk is giving them a lower price but he isn’t going to question it.

They just about have enough, Geralt will need to take another contract within the next day if they want to buy food, but it’s enough.

“We’ll buy it outright.”

Eryk grins and shakes his hand, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

* * *

Geralt wakes before Julian, he turns to face him and watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. He hasn’t noticed before but it comes to his attention that Julian now looks older than him.

His long brown hair which he knew was greying now seems greyer than ever with only a few places where the colour comes through. Julian’s face is older, crows feet deep beside his eyes and wrinkles that have long since made their presence known on his forehead. Geralt looks down at Julian’s hands, the skin covered in age spots and no longer as agile when he plays his lute.

Julian is in his late-sixties. He still looks remarkable for his age, handsome and glowing making most assume he’s at least a decade younger than he is. Geralt is struck by the thought that this is how he will lose him.

One day in the near future, Julian will die. It’s an inevitability, he knows, but Geralt had lulled himself into a false sense of security. There’s been no monsters, no sickness, he had let himself believe that maybe this time he could hold onto Julian forever. And now he sees the proof in front of him that would never happen.

It’s a while later when Julian stirs awake and greets him with a lazy smile and a yawn. “Morning,” he reaches out to tuck a strand of Geralt’s hair out of his face.

“Morning,” Geralt parrots back, trying to keep his voice from betraying his thoughts.

They lay in bed for a while and when Julian gets up, Geralt notices the pinch of his face and the way he rubs his back absently as he gets dressed. After that it’s impossible not to notice the little things.

Over breakfast Julian likes to read, he holds the book closer than he used to and squints more. When he plays the lute, he prefers to strum rather than pick at the strings and can’t play for as long, afterwards he will stretch his fingers with a grimace. In the afternoon, he’ll tend to their garden and vegetable patch and when he stands Geralt can hear the creak in his bones and hears the hiss as he puts pressure on his knees.

“Do you want anything from town?” Geralt asks the next morning.

Julian shakes his head, “No, my love, unless you see any new books, I’m nearly finished with mine.”

Geralt makes the ride up the coast to the nearest town, he stocks up on ingredients for potions even though he hasn’t taken on any monster contracts in a long time. And then he buys as many herbal remedies as he can for pain, arthritis and whatever the alchemist is selling to fight ageing.

He arrives back at their little cottage just before dusk. He can smell the food Julian has made for their dinner and as he walks inside, he notices some of their vegetables have been pulled. Inside Julian is sat on the sofa with a pot simmering on the stove.

“Geralt!” Julian grins, he always smiled when he saw him as if they had been separated for weeks rather than just a few hours. “Would you serve up the stew? My knee’s being a bit dodgy.”

Geralt immediately walks to his side and gently touches his knee, “What happened?”

Julian chuckles, “Nothing to worry about, just a bit sore. Gardened for too long this afternoon.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grits his teeth. When they had first bought the cottage, Julian had spent all day tending to the garden and it had never been an issue. “I got you something.”

“A book?”

“Yes, but also this,” he fishes out a vial and hands it over.

Julian scrunches his nose at the smell of the liquid inside, “What’s this?”

“For pain.”

Julian rolls his eyes and drinks it, he makes a gagging noise, “That’s horrible. But thank you. The stew?”

Geralt presses a kiss to Julian’s forehead and serves up the stew.

* * *

The herbal remedies help and Julian is able to live his life without as much pain in his bones. Geralt smiles when the sound of the lute fills the house for hours on end like it used to. The garden flourishes in a way it hasn’t in about five years. He has to buy Julian some new notebooks because he’s able to hold a quill long enough to write out all his songs and thoughts.

Geralt still leaves occasionally on hunts he catches word of. Everyone for miles around knows about the Witcher who has stopped travelling and has settled in Kovir. It isn’t uncommon for him to come to town for a quick trip and find someone has travelled from the surrounding kingdoms specifically to seek him out.

Contracts aren’t the only way he makes money. There’s plenty of work to be had in town doing odd jobs. Eryk frequently asks him for help with the upkeep of his properties and Geralt is happy to oblige.

He writes to Kaer Morhen. As the years go by Julian finds it harder to travel long distances. He goes for walks on the beach, and on good days he can make the ride to town, but that’s as far as he can go.

Geralt knows his heart still longs to travel; it’s why he reads so much. He wishes he could take him to far off places like he used to. Julian never complains, always content with all that they have. There’s no potion to truly reverse the effects of age.

Julian is seventy-five when Lambert comes by their cottage.

It’s Geralt who lets him in and the shock is clear on Lambert’s face when he sees Julian for the first time in nearly twenty years. He looks at Geralt quickly with a questioning look and Geralt gives a small shake of his head.

Julian rises from his chair slowly and makes his way to them with a happy grin. Lambert easily reciprocates and the two fall into conversation. Geralt watches them, Julian’s face lights up when he asks Lambert about his travels and he almost looks young again.

After Julian has gone to bed, Geralt pours him and Lambert a strong drink.

“He’s old,” Lambert notes.

“Well observed.”

Lambert shoots him an exasperated look which settles into a subtle grief, “I knew it was happening. In his letters he always complains about how moisturiser doesn’t do shit anymore,” he chuckles dryly taking a long sip. “But seeing it, shit,” he trails off.

Geralt nods, “It’s like I woke up one morning and he was old.”

“How long do you think he’ll have?”

Geralt’s stomach tightens at the thought of time running out. Humans could live to be much older than Julian, but plenty die of natural causes at his age too. He hasn’t exactly met many humans Julian’s age long enough to know how well he was coping for his age.

He was a hundred and thirty-five and still had the motor functions of a thirty-year-old and always would. Witcher’s didn’t get old. Vesemir was centuries old and still looked middle-aged. It wasn’t fair that Julian had to age.

“No idea,” he chokes out.

“He still looks good, Geralt,” Lambert assures, “He won’t be going any time soon.”

Geralt nods weakly, “Yeah,” he breathes.

Lambert stays with them for a few days before moving on. After that, he comes back to check in on them every few months. As do Eskel and Vesemir. Geralt isn’t sure what he’s said to them but he knows they all want to see Julian before it happens.

Julian doesn’t suspect anything as far as Geralt is aware. And Geralt is glad of seeing his family more frequently than ever before. Except, any time one of them shows up at their door it reminds him that he can’t convince himself it won’t happen.

* * *

“Stop looking so sad,” Julian pokes at Geralt’s cheek.

Geralt rolls his eyes and looks at him fondly, “I’m not sad.”

“Uh huh,” Julian says disbelievingly, his eyes lighting up. No matter how old his body grows his eyes still look the same bright blue they’ve always been. The one unchanging thing about his appearance, even if he needs glasses to read now.

“I’m not,” Geralt insists.

“Geralt, talk to me,” he whines, setting aside his book.

Geralt swallows and takes Julian’s hand in his. They look so old next to his. “I don’t really know what to say.”

“Try?”

He’s silent as he thinks about how to articulate everything. “You’re getting old,” he starts, “I can’t stop it. I never thought about having to deal with all this.”

Julian squeezes his hand, “It’s true, I am. Getting old isn’t a sad thing. Few are lucky to experience such a thing. I never thought I would.”

Geralt takes in Julian’s hair, all of it now grey and practically matching his. “I’m not getting old with you.”

Julian snorts, “Lucky fuck.”

Geralt gives him a withering look, then tries to find his words again. “Don’t you hate that I’m not ageing? That I still look young?”

“Why? Do you hate that I look old?” Julian keeps his voice casual but Geralt can hear the worry in it.

“I could never hate anything about you.”

“Then what’s the matter, love?”

“Seeing you get old and I can’t do anything to stop it, and you’ll die and I’ll still keep living for god knows how long.”

Julian nods slowly, “We always knew that would happen. My life might only be a small part of yours, but you are all of mine. I don’t regret anything about us. Dying of old age with the knowledge that you’ll live on is something I’m grateful for.”

“How?”

“Because true death is being forgotten, and I know you’ll always remember me.”

“As if I could forget,” Geralt quirks a smile and Julian nods in approval.

“You still have so much left to do, so much love to give. I know I can’t be there for it all, I feel incredibly lucky that I got to be here for this part.”

Geralt brings Julian’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to it. He hates how calm Julian is about it all but his words slowly begin to right the horrible feeling in his stomach. The thought of living without Julian was still something he couldn’t stand but he thinks that this time he might be ready to.

* * *

In the following ten years, Julian gets older and weaker.

It’s a slow deterioration and Geralt is fairly sure he’s ageing slower than most. Julian is ninety-six when he struggles to walk beyond their garden, when he’s slow to react and when he finally asks Geralt something horrible.

“I need you to make me a potion,” he says one afternoon, his words slow and his voice ragged with age.

“A potion?”

“I don’t know how much longer I have, but I want to go on my own terms. I don’t want to die in pain and my body is reaching its limit.”

Geralt swallows, he already knows where this is going. He wants to stop him but he doesn’t have the heart to begrudge him that. A painless death. That’s all he wants for him too but he suddenly realises he’s out of time.

It takes a week to gather the right ingredients. He crushes them into a paste in their little kitchen while Julian hums a song to himself. Geralt’s hands shake as he grounds together the leaves.

He’s going to kill him, that’s what he’s asking him to do, actively kill him. He grounds poppy seeds for the opiates and buttercups for the poison, along with several other herbs that guarantee Julian will fall asleep before the poison stops his heart.

Geralt shakes the paste together with some water in a vial and goes to Julian. “It’s ready,” he whispers.

Julian looks up at him with those big blue eyes and smiles softly, “Come here,” he reaches out a hand.

Geralt takes it and kneels next to Julian, his head in his lap as Julian strokes his hair.

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

Geralt thinks his heart might actually break in two if the pain in his chest is any indication. He moves to hand over the vial but Julian stops him. “Not here. Can you take me down to the beach, my love? I want to see the ocean one last time.”

Geralt gently lifts Julian into his arms. He’s so light and bony Geralt is scared he might break him but Julian makes no complaint. He carries him out of their house and down to the shoreline. He lowers him to the ground and sits behind him with his legs on either side to support him.

Julian breathes deeply and sinks against Geralt’s chest. Geralt’s eyes are full of tears and his breathing is uneven as he tries not to break down.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Julian says lightly, “The waves.”

“Not as beautiful as you.”

Julian laughs, “I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

“You’re always fishing for compliments,” Geralt chuckles, sniffling as his chest feel so full of happiness as it always does with Julian and so full of anguish at what’s to come.

“The waves are all different, you see? No two the same. And yet they always return to the shore, ever faithful.”

They sit and watch the waves for a long time and Geralt soaks in the feeling of Julian in his arms for the last time. He hands over the vial and Julian turns it over in his hands.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers back in his ear, “For spending your life with me.”

Julian turns to look at him over his shoulder, “There’s no one else I would have rather spent it with.” He drinks the vial in a few gulps and then tosses it away, it lands with a splash in the sea. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It takes a few minutes for his eyes to slip shut and his breathing to even out, and a few more for it to stop completely.

Geralt can’t hold back the cries that wrack his body and he screams for his loss.

They had discussed what Julian wanted beforehand. Geralt leaves him on the beach and goes back to the house to fetch his lute, which hasn’t been touched in nearly a year, and the small boat they kept in the garden.

He brings it to the beach and carefully puts Julian on the boat and his lute beside him. Geralt whispers his last goodbye and uses ignii to light the boat and pushes it out to sea. The waves carry the boat away and away until only the smallest flicker is left on the horizon.

Geralt stalks back to the house. His mind is reeling and he wants to throw their furniture around until he feels better. He can’t bring himself to destroy the house Julian put so much love into.

He writes a hasty letter to send to Kaer Morhen informing the others of Julian’s death. Then he gathers his things, packs up Roach and heads to town. He finds Eryk’s grandson, Artur, and sells the cottage. He gets thirty thousand bezants, the price the cottage was really worth before Eryk gave it to them cheaper.

Geralt leaves Kovir as fast as possible heading deep inland. He throws himself into hunts like never before, reckless and uncaring of the danger, no injury could hurt as much as the pain in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is I Choose You by Adam Melchor! is dying of old age more or less painful than the previous two (three sort of) deaths? Let me know what you thought I love hearing from you all <33


	10. just mine then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the response on the last chapter! hope this one breaks your hearts just as much <3

Julian regrets coming to Temeria as he walks through Vizima, and he regrets leaving Geralt at the edge of the city even more. He isn’t fully sure why he wanted to come here but he steels himself for the upcoming confrontation.

It’d be easy to never return. They already think he’s dead and he could become just Julian like he’s always wanted. He thinks of Griffin and his father and knows they don’t deserve to have him quietly disappear while the public pities them for the loss of their heir.

He needs to let them know he’s alive. He needs to break free of his own accord.

Julian opens the doors to the main hall and it goes silent at his appearance. It’s full of all the lords and ladies with his family sitting at the dais. Griffin is sat next to their father instead of their mother, the place of the heir. His father pales at the sight of him and Griffin clenches his fist.

He walks forward calmly, head held high and keeping his breathing calm.

“Julian,” King Cedric stands when he gets close, “We thought you were dead.”

Julian stops just before them and his eyes dart to Griffin who looks away. “As you can see, I’m very much alive.”

The air is so thick Julian thinks he might choke on it. “The gods have blessed our family,” Cedric says loudly, although the pinch of his face suggests Julian’s return is anything but a blessing.

Julian smirks, “Worry not, father, I’m not here to claim my place. Though I should and stop all this injustice while I have the chance, but I cannot take part in this family anymore.”

His mother stands then, “Julian? What do you mean?”

Julian turns to Griffin, “Brother, why don’t you tell them? How our so-called war against the elves was a genocide, a slaughter. How you killed children and smiled. How you tried to kill me.”

He hears the gasps and mutterings erupt around the hall but he keeps his gaze firmly on his family. Griffin pales, “I never tried to kill you,” he says weakly.

Julian snorts, “Tell that to the scar on my side from your blade. Don’t you think it’s interesting, father, that the elves you ordered the killing of saved your heir from certain death, when your youngest son attempted to end my life?”

“These are lies,” Cedric hisses. Julian thinks he looks pathetic, he can’t understand why he used to be so frightened of him. His father was a weak man and a weak king who relied on his status to make people afraid.

“It’s true,” Julian turns from them and addresses the court. “Your king ordered the deaths of thousands. Men, women, children just like you and the people who live on your lands. The only difference between us is a few physical traits.”

He scans the crowd. Most look at him in disgust and outrage, no doubt brainwashed by anti-elf propaganda, there are a few who look concerned by what he is saying and that is enough for him.

Julian turns back to his family and their livid faces, “Worry not, father. You don’t have to call me your son, or heir, any longer. I want nothing to do with this family and what it stands for.”

“Where will you go?” his mother asks, a hint of worry in her voice. Julian thinks that were she not Queen, she might have been a better mother to him, but she preferred her titles over her children.

“Anywhere, and I’ll never return to Temeria again.”

He turns on his heels and walks out of the hall. Julian can’t tell if it’s silent because of the shock or silent because his blood is drumming in his ears so loud it’s blocking it all out. He walks down the hall lined with the portraits of his ancestors, for once glad to see them because he knows it will be his last.

Julian stops in front of the family portrait. He looks so much younger in the painting, and much less happy. He smiles as he continues, knowing that that rendition of a caged boy desperately looking for freedom will be the last thing this castle will ever see of him.

He has his freedom now, and he’s waiting for him on horseback just outside the city.

“Julian!”

He’s nearly out of the castle and the last person he expected to be chasing him is Griffin.

Against his better judgement, he stops and lets his little brother catch up with him.

Griffin pauses in front of him and hesitates. For a moment he looks like he did when they were children before he learnt to be hateful. Julian wonders how this can be the same man who had tried to kill him on the battlefield.

“What is it?”

“I-” Griffin looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Thank you.”

“I know you always wanted to be king, but I didn’t do it for you.” After everything his family has done to elves he will never do anything for them again.

Griffin nods, “I know. I don’t understand how you could give it all up.”

Julian sighs, “Because I don’t value power. I just want to help people and this family and this court will never do that, even if I was King.”

“I want to help people,” Griffin argues.

“Only those you consider people,” Julian says bitterly and Griffin says nothing, doesn’t even look ashamed for what he has done in the so-called Great Cleansing. “You’ll be a good King.” For what it’s worth he knows that Griffin will be; he actually cares about all the things rulers need to know, even if he will only be good to his own people.

Griffin nods. “What will you be, a bard?”

“I can be anything I want to be. That’s the beauty of not being under the thumb of a hundred politicians. Goodbye, Griffin.”

He walks away and leaves his family and his past behind him. When he leaves the castle for the final time Julian takes his first breath of freedom.

Geralt is waiting for him at the outskirts of the city. He knows he has made the best choice of his life. Julian swings up onto Roach behind Geralt and wraps his arms around his waist.

“Where to?”

Geralt smiles over his shoulder, “Wherever you’d like, my prince.”

“Not a prince anymore,” Julian smirks and Geralt urges Roach forward.

“Just mine then.”

“Just yours,” Julian agrees with a contented smile, resting his head of Geralt’s shoulder as they ride far away from Temeria.

* * *

_He’s in the command tent with his father and brother planning the next attack. He shakes his head, refusing to fight. His father storms towards him but his face shifts. His hair turns dark and a beard grows on his face, “Now isn’t the time to play, Dandelion, do as you’re told.” He puts a sword in his hand and shoves him back. His face changes back, lean, clean-shaven and blonde hair. “Go. Fight.” He feels like he’s falling._

Julian gasps as he wakes on the forest floor. He looks at his hands and all he can see is blood on them. He rubs at them frantically trying to get it off.

“Julian,” Geralt is by his side and pulling him close.

He can feel his chest moving with the force of his rapid heartbeat. “Sorry, nightmare.”

“It’s okay, you’re safe now, I’ve got you.”

* * *

“Would it be ironic to sing a song about jewels now that I’ve given it all up,” Julian muses, before his set.

Geralt smirks, “Yes, but only we’ll know.”

“How right you are,” Julian grins, pressing a wet kiss to Geralt’s cheek which he wipes with a grumble.

Julian bounces to the front of the inn, sending Geralt one last smile, his heart fluttering at the one he receives in return. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I will rouse your spirits with tales of heroics and heartbreaks! But first, let me begin tonight’s performance with a song dedicated to the love of my life.”

He waits until the eyes of the inn are fixated on him and then begins to play. He had written it years ago on the road when he had first been travelling with Geralt, even before it was revealed he was a prince. He’d nearly forgotten the song but found himself humming it as the left Temeria and figured it would make a good addition to his set.

_Call the search off_

_I didn’t think I’d find you_

_Looked for every message in a bottle and caught lighting_

_I never have to go too far_

_Without feeling the light that comes from you_

_Cause you’re my jewel_

_There’s a rooster_

_In the yard behind us_

_Crowing at all hours of the day_

_He must be blind but_

_He only has to get it right, just once_

_Like I got it right with you_

_Cause you’re my jewel_

_Emeralds and rubies_

_They all mean nothing to me_

_The only pearls that drew me were your eyes_

_When they looked right through me_

_It shook me and it moved me_

_Something in my heart then crystallised, crystallised_

_Diamonds are forever_

_But I’ve got something better_

_Yes, I do_

_All the precious metals_

_Are just roses without petals_

_Next to you_

_Cause you’re my jewel_

_Cause you’re my jewel_

Julian grins at the applause he receives and the coins already being tossed into his open lute case. He moves on to a fast-paced song about fighting monsters, not specifically naming Geralt or Witchers but glances are still sent Geralt’s way during the song. He sings a few more love songs and a few local ballads that have everyone singing along.

When the night is over he has a decent amount of coin and he plops down next to Geralt with an exhausted huff. “How was it? Three words or less.”

“Thrilling as always,” Geralt smirks, brushing a strand of hair that is stuck to his face out of the way.

Julian smiles breathlessly, leaning into the touch briefly before beginning to count his coin. “Think we’ve got enough here so you don’t have to go on a hunt and risk your life?”

Geralt smirks, “Never,” he quickly captures his lips in a kiss and rises. “I’ve got to head out.”

“Good luck,” Julian watches him go, wishing that every time he saw him walk away he didn’t have to worry if it would be the last time.

Julian waits up for Geralt as he always does. He didn’t used to be so worried before the war, but now the fear claws at him and he can’t help but fret. Death wasn’t some far off thing it could come for either of them at any time. Geralt’s livelihood is a constant battle against death and Julian is petrified that he’ll be left alone.

Geralt comes back in the early hours of the morning needing patching up. Julian hates the reminder that Geralt isn’t invincible but each new scar that lines his body is a reassuring proof that he can survive.

* * *

Julian likes Eskel. He’s a lot like Geralt and the similarities between them are sometimes startling. He’s more open, where sometimes it’s like pulling teeth getting Geralt to talk, Eskel is always up for a friendly conversation. With the exception of the scars on his face. Julian wants to tell him it doesn’t matter to him but he doesn’t want to intrude.

They’re making their way to Kaer Morhen and it’s strange travelling with another person. He’s not used to having any company other than Geralt for the past few years. It’s nice though, and he welcomes the opportunity to grill Eskel for stories he can use in his songs.

He had never expected to be travelling with the two Witchers to Kaer Morhen. He’d often envisioned the castle during the winters away from Geralt, now he’s going to see it.

Julian is a little worried they’ll get there and the other Witchers won’t want him. The weather gets colder the further north they go. He thinks about the elves and hopes that they manage to survive the harsh winter settling across the Continent.

* * *

The door slams behind Geralt and Julian collapses back onto the bed. He can’t enjoy the comfort of a mattress because he’s berating himself for opening his mouth. He wipes a hand over his face trying to think of how to apologise for overstepping.

Julian stands from the bed and continues fixing the furniture Geralt hadn’t finished. There are no personal touches to the room, just a basic set of furniture and a fireplace. From what he knows no Witcher had their own assigned room. Up until now. He can already envision ways to make it more homely, that is if Geralt doesn’t come back and announce they’re leaving. Or rather, he needs to leave for upsetting the delicate peace they had here.

He rearranges the room three times before he can’t stand it anymore. Julian leaves and wanders around the keep. It’s freezing in the hallways and he wishes he had worn an extra layer. He comes to a stop where the entire wall is missing.

From here he can see all the way across the mountain range and the snow that steadily falls to cover the trees. The wind is fast and biting, whipping his hair in all directions. Carefully, he sits on the ground so his feet overhang the drop.

His stomach races, he’s never been a fan of heights and one wrong move could send him hurtling into the depths below. That would be the last way he wants to die. He keeps a solid grip on the ledge, digging his fingers hard into the wood of the floorboard until it hurts.

Julian thinks of the betrayed look Geralt had given him before he stormed out. Thinks of the looks his family gave him when he left. He’s never been good at keeping people happy.

“Hope you’re not planning on jumping.”

Julian startles at the voice and looks to see Eskel coming to sit next to him, looking a lot more at ease with the deadly drop.

“No, not the way I’d want to go.”

Eskel hums, “And how would you want to go?”

Julian shrugs, “I’m not sure, something nice preferably. Painless. Not terrifying.”

His fingers are starting to turn numb from the cold and he’s certain in the morning the length of the hallway will be covered in frost.

“So,” Eskel lightly pokes his shoulder, “How come you’re sad?”

“I’m not sad.”

“I could smell it on you from two floors down.”

“Oh.”

“C’mon.”

Julian sighs, shifting a little away from the ledge. “I said some things to Geralt which he didn’t appreciate.”

Eskel doesn’t say anything but gives him a prompting look.

“I don’t really like Vesemir, for what he put you all through when you were younger. And I told Geralt it was trauma and he got angry and left.”

Eskel snorts, “Sounds like Geralt. He hates being told how he thinks or feels before he’s figured it out himself, even if it’s obvious to everyone else.”

That did sound like Geralt, and it eased some of his worries. “Tell me about him?” It was a rare opportunity to hear about Geralt from someone who actually knows and cares for him.

“Has he told you about people before you?” Eskel asks hesitantly and Julian nods. “The first person he fell in love with, he spent years denying it. We saw it plain as day that he didn’t just ‘care’ for him, and he got snappy with us every time we told him to go for it. Even if the entire castle could tell by his moping.”

Julian smiles, the image of Geralt pining endlessly funny and also stirs latent bitterness and jealousy within him. “It only took him a few hours to get with me, and a few weeks to tell me he loved me.” He wonders if that means that whoever Geralt’s first love was held more of his heart.

Eskel notices the look on his face and rolls his eyes, “He’s learnt not to waste time anymore. Once he has someone he wants, he’s not gonna let go. Not over a little fight. Besides, I lived with him during winter these past few years and he mopes just as much over you as he did Dandelion.”

Julian can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, the jealousy that had arisen subdued once more. Geralt would live for centuries, it was foolish to think he would be the only one he would love.

Eskel rises and brushes off his trousers, “Don’t stay too long, you’ll catch frostbite. Geralt will be looking for you by now.”

Julian watches him go building his nerves to face Geralt. After a few minutes he starts to find his way back to their room. _Dandelion_ , he rolls the name over his mind, Geralt had never told him the names of his past lovers. It’s a nice name, he thinks.

He makes it back to their room and Geralt is already waiting for him. They pause and look at each other and then say, “I’m sorry,” at the same time.

“Let me go first,” Julian says, sitting beside Geralt on the bed, a little further than he usually would. “I’m sorry for overstepping my boundaries. I shouldn’t have said anything and I’m probably projecting my own problems with my father onto you.”

Geralt takes his hands, frowning at the cold. “I’m sorry, too. And you were right, what Vesemir did wasn’t something you should forgive,” he speaks slowly, struggling to find the right words, “It means a lot to me that you both get along, though.”

“I’ll try.”

Julian lets Geralt bring his hands up to his lips to press a kiss to them and then blow on them to warm them up. Geralt lights the fireplace quickly and the warmth is a breath of relief. They snuggle under the furs that line the bed and Julian steals Geralt’s heat.

He leans up to kiss him softly, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“It was a long time coming,” Geralt whispers, kissing him again.

* * *

The sword in his hand feels like a death sentence.

It’s blunt steel, only used for practice and Lambert promises he’ll go easy on him. That’s not the problem. The problem is whenever he picks up a sword, he remembers how many people he ruthlessly killed with one. Innocents.

It’s just sparring, he tells himself, it’s not even for his benefit it’s so the Witcher’s can stay at the top of their game.

Lambert swings first, unsurprising based off the stories he’s heard. Julian easily defends and soon he gets lost in the clash of swords. A few times he nearly switches to attack, so used to taking any opportunity to get an advantage against Griffin or an elf. This isn’t his boyhood training yard or the battlefield, though.

He keeps defending. He’s just as skilled on that front and he can see Lambert get a little riled up that he isn’t landing any hits. He won’t win the fight, it’s impossible to without attacking, but he doesn’t want to be the cause of any more harm no matter how small.

“Only know how to defend?” Lambert goads.

“No,” Julian replies shortly, catching a particularly hard blow which sends shockwaves up his arm.

“Too afraid to try and attack me?” Lambert grins.

Julian can’t help but snort, “No, just don’t want to embarrass you.”

They continue sparring for a while but it’s clear neither of them are getting anywhere so they slow down to a stop. “Not bad,” Lambert nods in approval, "I see why Geralt keeps you around.”

They walk over to the man in question and Julian laughs as they tease each other. It’s nice to see Geralt so free, unhindered by the constant alertness he maintains around humans.

“I’m gonna find your library,” Julian says, needing to escape from the courtyard and sparring. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected it to be but fighting still put him on edge.

“Want me to show you the way?” Geralt offers but Julian declines and finds his way inside.

He has no real intent upon finding the library so takes his time walking through the keep. It’s easy to see that it was once a magnificent place, despite the horrors it held inside, and it was a shame to see it in such a ruin. Julian makes note of easy repairs he can do when he wants to disappear for a while.

After some time, he stumbles upon the library. He walks along the bookshelves until the smell of old parchment and ink settles his nerves. There’s a portion of the library that has clearly been destroyed; the scrolls that held knowledge on how to make Witchers, he guesses. He’s surprised the rest of the library seems untouched and yet the lack of dust on the shelves and the occasional pile of unsorted books suggests that they have recently been set in place.

The library is much larger than the one in the castle he grew up in. There’s plenty of books on monsters, some broader bestiaries and others specific studies. Julian wonders how long it would take to read everything in here and if it was possible to do so in a human lifespan. He’s already itching to dig in and find out more about this side of Geralt’s life.

He stops in his tracks when he comes to an opening in the shelves where several tables are. And in the centre sits Vesemir with a large book flipped open and making notes on the side of the pages.

Julian swallows and considers turning away but Vesemir looks up and pins him in place. The man in question doesn’t look inherently frightening, although Julian has never been scared of Witchers. He doesn’t have as many scars as Eskel nor does he exude the same biting aura of Lambert. If anything, he looks almost paternal and wise, except Vesemir holds himself with such authority Julian thinks he could tell Kings to go to bed early and they’d listen with their tails tucked between their legs.

“Julian,” Vesemir acknowledges evenly, “Find something to read?”

Julian snatches the closest book of the shelf and sits opposite Vesemir, thankful that the tables are large enough to put considerable distance between them.

The silence stretches and Julian tries and fails to focus on the book he picked. It’s an in-depth look at kikimoras and unknown uses for their body parts. He doesn’t look up at Vesemir but he can feel him watching him. He knows that Geralt and the others look up to the man and see him as a father figure but Julian can’t.

From the scarce details he’s heard about growing up at Kaer Morhen it was hardly pleasant. Julian is sure the Witchers don’t even realise how bad because they never had a proper childhood or saw what it could be like. He’s no expert on happy childhoods but he knows trauma when he sees it.

Vesemir was only a fencing instructor, not nearly as bad as the other tutors, and he saved Geralt’s life for which Julian is eternally grateful. But he participated in it - he was the one who brought Geralt here.

“Finding it interesting?” Vesemir raises an eyebrow.

Julian nods slowly, “Very.”

The silence drags again, until Vesemir states, “You don’t like me.”

Julian’s blood runs cold and he fears that Vesemir might throw him out of the keep, he has the power to. His political upbringing kicks in and his first instinct is to lie and placate the man, but he realises he won’t appreciate that. Instead he shuffles in his chair and answers honestly, “No.”

Vesemir hums, Julian thinks that must be where Geralt picked up the habit, he doesn’t seem bothered by his admission. “Geralt already told me why.”

“Really?” Geralt certainly hadn’t told him he’d spoken to Vesemir about his reservations.

“He did, and I understand your point. I’m not proud of how I taught the boys but I’m proud of how they turned out. It was a necessity. Were I not harsh on them then even more would die when they left.”

Julian frowns, pretending to read the book. He somewhat understands Vesemir’s reasoning, but it was so similar to his father who used to beat him in the hopes it would turn him into a better heir. Where his father was unsuccessful, Vesemir was.

It’s not his battle to fight, though. Geralt and the others clearly care a lot for Vesemir and hold him in high regard despite their upbringing. Vesemir was their family, and Julian knows what it’s like to long for family despite their faults. He had almost been close to Griffin at the start of the war, he had been ready to forgive all the years of hatred in his longing. If Geralt had found that then he wouldn’t stand in the way or try to drive a wedge between them.

“I see,” Julian says evenly, “Well they’ve learnt it all now. You don’t need to be so harsh anymore.”

Vesemir’s lips pull into the smallest smile, “A prince through and through I see.”

Julian tilts his head to the side, “Geralt hasn’t told you everything then. I’m not a prince anymore.”

They sit in a more comfortable silence. Julian still doesn’t condone what Vesemir did but he can learn to appreciate what he means to Geralt now. It’s important to Geralt so he will make the effort to not judge Vesemir for his past.

* * *

_There’s blood on his hands and a sword in his grip. He cuts down the man in front of him, behind him is a girl. An elf girl. She screams at the sight of him and he stops. He wants to tell her to run but the words come out too late. Someone else has already cut her down._

_He’s at camp with the other soldiers. Griffin laughs and slings his arm around his shoulder. Julian smiles. Brothers, this is what they were meant to be. Then Griffin shows him a long rope. All along it are bloodied elf ears. Julian flinches away from the sight and into another soldier holding a rope of elf ears. And another and another. They get closer, showing off their achievements. Julian feels like he’s choking._

_He is choking. He’s coughing up blood and his back hurts something awful. He’s in a bed with fresh white linens turning deep red. Geralt walks into the room. Why is Geralt here? He’s at war. But he’s in a room, not a tent, and it doesn’t make sense._

Julian wakes with a start. Geralt is hovering over him with worry clear across his face.

“Geralt?” his voice is thick and he feels the tears drying on his cheeks.

Geralt settles next to him, “You were having a nightmare.”

Julian nods, recalling the horrible images. “The war,” he whispers, burying his face in Geralt’s chest. Geralt threads his fingers through his hair until his heartbeat calms down.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Julian pauses, not sure how to put into words what he’s seen. “Did you know that some soldiers take elf ears as trophies when they kill them?”

He feels Geralt tense underneath him, “No.”

“They do. Soldiers, and my brother, used to wear necklaces or belts made of them.”

Geralt rubs down his back, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop it,” Julian replies bitterly.

“There’s nothing you could have done. Even if you tried sooner.”

Julian squeezes his eyes shut, “I just wish I’d done more.”

“You did all that you could, and that’s enough.”

* * *

They go back to Kaer Morhen every year. It takes a lot of work and about ten years for the keep to be restored. It’s still nothing in comparison to what it could be but they patch up all the large holes in the walls and fix as much of the damage as they can.

Only small drafts make their way through the castle now, for which Julian is glad. Even the small drafts cause his muscles to ache and he dreads to think what the full force of the cold would do to his body now.

He finds himself sparring less and spending more time with Vesemir, both finding refuge in the library. The Witcher is older than the others, though Julian is not sure by how much, and he becomes a kindred spirit. While Julian is, of course, the youngest he reaches the point where he begins to feel older than them. Where Geralt and Lambert are content to spend hours sparring as they’ve always done, Julian much prefers spending a shorter time with a sword and more time indoors in a comfortable chair.

Summer gives him a new lease of life, the warmth seeps into his bones and makes him feel young again. Then, inevitably, the colder months draw in and his muscles ache a little more and his back suffers from sleeping on the ground and he welcomes the respite of staying in one place for winter.

* * *

Kovir is perfect. Julian has been in the area for less than a day and he already feels like he’s found something he didn’t know he was missing. The town they stay in is just a mile away from the coast and he can smell the salt that lingers on the air. He’s eager to get down to the sea tomorrow.

The barmaid points him to a landlord and Julian can’t hold on to find him at his place of business the next day. “Good sir,” he approaches, “Are you Eryk?”

The man looks him up and down, “I am.”

Julian beams, “Excellent. I’m looking for a place to settle down and rest my head for the long years ahead of me. The barmaid told me you were absolutely the best person to seek out for such a matter.”

Eryk glances at the barmaid disbelievingly, no doubt seeing straight through his charming words. “Is that so?”

“It is, and I can already tell she’s correct. You, my good sir, look like the most trustworthy gentleman in this establishment and it would be my honour to purchase from you.”

Eryk snorts, “Okay. I’ve got a couple of places you might be interested in.”

“Excellent,” Julian grins, “I won’t be living alone. Come meet my partner.” He guides him over to the table Geralt is sat at and bribes him with free dinner and soon the man is talking them through all their options.

* * *

Julian loves their little cottage. It’s just the right size and he keeps the garden full of flowers. When they first moved in they travelled to Kaer Morhen in the winter as usual. Geralt would still leave on hunts in the summer, sometimes for weeks at a time now that he had to travel further to find them. And then slowly Julian found he couldn’t make the journey so far east anymore.

The journey itself became more difficult with each passing year and then he found that he couldn’t make the trail up the mountain. He had to ride Roach because his legs seized up at the steep hike, and that wasn’t good for the poor mare.

Since then, they stay in the cottage for winter. Julian misses seeing their family each year but his body thanks him for it. His bones creak when he kneels by the coast or in his garden and he’s thankful that he has a place to call home.

* * *

The older Julian gets the more he is confined to their small patch of land. He doesn’t mind so much, the coast is right there and Geralt is usually home. He fulfils his longing for the road with endless books about far off places and sending letters to those still out there.

It’s hard to keep up with the other Witchers, they travel all summer after all. Julian can send them letters in Winter when he knows they will be in one place. Vesemir managed to specially train, or enchant, a raven to deliver messages back and forth between the keep and their cottage.

Julian sends letters to the elves, which is an even more difficult feat. The letters get sent between a handful of trusted people on their journey across the Continent. Finally landing in the hands of an elf supporter living in the town closest to Posada, the renamed lands of Dol Blathana. That person then makes the journey to the cave systems Filivandrel and the others still live in. It takes a few months between letters but each scroll that finds it’s way to him is a blessing, a reassurance that everyone is still alive.

_My dearest Aga,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I don’t know how many decades it’s been but I’m sure you look as lovely as ever, and that you’d laugh if you could see the wrinkles that have stubbornly taken residence on my face. I’ve put herbs and seeds that I’ve grown in here that should be useful for your healing remedies. I miss you all and hope that one day I can find you all at the edge of the world again!_

_Love Julian_

“Why are you writing in Elder?” Geralt peers over his shoulder.

“They’re elves, Geralt, it would be rude not to,” he scrunches his nose. Geralt chuckles and kisses him and Julian hums happily.

_My friend Filavandrel,_

_Or should I say, my king? Although I already know you will insist that I don’t. I don’t have many words of encouragement; I’ve never been in your position. All I can say is I know you are the only person I would ever trust to lead. If you ever find yourself wanting to make a long journey, you are always welcome here at my cottage in Kovir_

_Love Julian_

* * *

Lambert shows up at their door and makes Julian’s year. He’s not seen him in nearly twenty years and he’s very much glad of the company. Not that he doesn’t love having Geralt around but it’s a breath of fresh air to have another Witcher in the house.

“Tell me everything,” Julian demands. The only stories he hears lately are Geralt’s trips to towns or the piles of books he reads. None of them are as interesting as a real-life Witcher who still spends his time on the Path.

Lambert happily obliges and regales him with tales of the Path, never leaving out the gory details much to his delight. He’s not blind, he notices the glances Lambert gives him and the looks he shares with Geralt. Julian has had a long time to come to terms with his ageing appearance but it seems Lambert and Geralt are still struggling.

He doesn’t bring it up, doesn’t want to make it awkward. He pushes and prompts for more stories and tells a few less grand tales of life of his own. He may look old but his mind is still young, he’s still the same person, the only difference now is he definitely can’t sword fight.

Julian retires to bed early to let Geralt and Lambert talk alone. He hears their low voices from the kitchen, too low to hear but their tone is enough to guess they’re discussing him. Geralt comes to bed a while later and holds him tighter than usual.

* * *

_To the lovely and stubborn Julian,_

_I would not dare laugh at your wrinkles, they’re just dollops of paint on a new work of art and I’m sure you look just as handsome as ever. Thank you for the herbs, my supplies have been running low of late and they were very welcome. I hope to see you again one day too, but I fear your heart might give out if you were to see the state of my hair which has been lacking your braids all these years._

_Love Aga_

Julian laughs at her words, the letter drawn close to his face as he struggles to focus on the writing even with his glasses.

“What are you laughing at?” Eskel asks as he raids their cupboards for food. The Witchers had started dropping by their cottage more frequently than ever. Julian knows why and he’s glad of it. He can feel himself getting older by the day. He’s thankful that when he dies he’ll have seen those he loves recently. His heart longs to see the elves again but he knows it’s impossible.

“A letter from an old friend,” he smiles wryly, moving on to Filavandrel’s letter.

_My friend Julian,_

_You are right, I do not want you to call me king. I wish none of them would, it is not my choice but a title I must hold all the same. Sometimes I wish you had taken your place as king so we could lead our people together, but were I in the place to relinquish the title I would do so too. The children have all grown up now and there is a new generation of Evelien who owe their lives to you. My lute also misses you, as it has not been played as well since you left. If the day comes when we can leave it would be my great honour to see your home._

_Your friend, Filavandrel_

* * *

Julian is lazing in Geralt’s arms. Geralt is reading a book to him, it’s one he’s had lying around for ages but the print is too small for him to read. His head is nestled on Geralt’s shoulders and the pillows on their bed are arranged to support his back.

He’s basking in the warmth and the softness of being pressed against Geralt’s side, and still, he can’t ignore the ache in his legs, the discomfort in his back and the pain in his lungs. Geralt is strong and steady by his side, as he always will be, and Julian becomes very aware of his own fragility.

If he moves to fast he can twist a muscle, if he hits a corner instead of a bruise it will break the skin. The pain of ageing has crept in so slowly he almost didn’t notice it happening. It didn’t come in one crashing moment but in a small trickle.

When he was a young man he could tilt his head up and kiss Geralt, now he knows it will hurt his neck to try and do so at such an angle. He mourns the loss of his youth, Geralt’s voice a steady rumble against his ear, oblivious to Julian’s thoughts.

He’s not upset that he’s aged, he doesn’t regret the time elapsed, he just wishes he had noticed sooner. He wishes he had noticed when he was still lithe and nimble so he could have turned to kiss Geralt more, danced more, and played the lute more.

Julian eyes the lute across the cottage, sitting on a mount above the fireplace ever since arthritis set in too much to play. He’d spent his whole life playing and it would never be enough for him.

He sighs a little and Geralt’s free hand comes to card through his hair. His youth may be long gone but he still has Geralt and the love that has sustained him this long. Julian knows he doesn’t have much time left and the thought is a little terrifying but mostly welcoming.

There will always be things he wishes he could do, and things he wishes he hadn’t. Julian thinks it’s impossible to truly die with no regrets and no wants. He’s happy, though, truly happy and satisfied with everything he received in life, both the good and the bad.

There isn’t much else he can do, no matter what he wishes. The only thing keeping him going is Geralt and he knows how hard it is on the other man to see him age. He doesn’t want to live another ten years, which he certainly could with how well Geralt takes care of him. He doesn’t want to wither until he’s skin and bone and senile. He doesn’t want to live through any more pain setting in.

No, he only wishes now to be free of the pain. Julian squeezes Geralt and feels him press a kiss to the top of his head. Tomorrow he will ask Geralt to do the hardest thing he will ever ask of him.

* * *

The waves crash over and over in a soothing melody. As the water retreats, they crash over the pebbles that rest along the shoreline. They sound like they are calling out to him. Each wave reaching out to pull him into the abyss.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The waves.”

He had decided long ago this was where he wanted to be left. He thinks back to Eskel asking him how he wanted to go all those years ago. He never would have thought this would be an option and there’s no other way he’d rather die now.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Geralt rumbles in his ear and Julian laughs.

Julian marvels at the waves some more. He can feel Geralt’s heartbeat slow against his back. If there is an afterlife the sound of Geralt’s heart will surely be the melody guiding him to it.

He takes the potion in one gulp and they say their final I love you’s. His muscles relax first, and the pain that has been such a constant for all these years that he doesn’t even notice anymore eases. His eyes slip shut and all he can hear is the steady crashing of waves and Geralt’s breathing in time with it.

Julian is thankful that this is where his life ends. His only regret is leaving Geralt behind, but he knows no place he’d rather be than in Geralt’s arms as he obeys the call of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is Jewel - Adam Melchor (yes I'm using his songs a lot they're great you should listen to them). sorry to put you through Julian's death twice, and I hope it didn't hurt any more than last time? let me know what you thought! <3


	11. everyone he ever loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please dont hate me for this chapter! hope you still enjoy <3

These days Geralt doesn’t bother waiting for a contract. He fights any monster he comes across, half hoping it’ll be up for money in the next town or at the very least the adrenaline will distract him from the ache in his heart.

It’s different this time. When he had mourned Dandelion and Buttercup the pain had been intense and all-consuming. The loss of them had been so sudden. He had carried the pain at the forefront, unable to move past the hole in his chest left in their wake.

This time, the loss of Julian wasn’t so sharp. It wasn’t a stinging pain that made itself known with each step. It was so deep that it was knitted into every muscle of his body. Geralt almost feels numb from the hurt that has burrowed so deep within him he thinks it might never leave.

Geralt rids himself of anything that isn’t necessary. He loses himself in the Path; he follows their teachings to the letter. Only carry what is necessary. Always keep travelling. Don’t ask questions, just kill monsters. Don’t get attached.

Unlike before, where he would forget about the loss and turn to find the road empty beside him, he can’t forget. Every waking moment he is aware of the emptiness. He spent nearly eighty years with Julian as a constant presence by his side. The silence is insufferable.

Where there should be music and singing there is only the hollow sounds of the wind. Where there should be laughter there is only the clopping of hooves. Where there should be sweet nothings whispered by the campfire there is only the crackling of burning wood.

He can’t ignore the agony that threatens to devour him, but he can focus on what he is meant to do. What he should have done. When he had Julian is was easy to scoff at the rule that Witchers don’t have emotions or relationships. The love they shared was so pure, so deep, that the rules didn’t make sense. How could he live the Path alone when a real life was within his grasp? Geralt understands now. The rules aren’t just in place to stop the deaths of humans, because that is all a Witcher can bring, but to protect Witchers from this.

At first, after he had said goodbye to Julian, their cottage, and their life, he had been sloppy. He didn’t care if he got hurt. He didn’t care if the contract was dangerous or if he was low on potions. Hunting was the only time he didn’t feel like his grief might tear him to shreds. There was a promise in taking contract after contract with no rest that one of them would put him out of his misery.

He had returned to Kaer Morhen that winter, and his presence in the keep was enough to let the others know that Julian was gone. They had spent that winter in mourning together. Geralt had struggled with the sudden company but the change from the constant silence had been welcome. For a few months, the pain that underlined every bone in his body had lessened. Knowing that his grief was shared with his brothers had quietened the loneliness that clawed in his chest.

In summer he still threw himself recklessly into contracts. After a few Winters of showing up with more injuries than any of them should have this late in the season, Vesemir had pulled him aside and reminded him who he was. A Witcher. The Path was his place. He needed to be alive for it.

His sorrow had all but swallowed him up. He couldn’t keep living like this. He had other people to live for.

After that, Geralt had become the perfect example of a Witcher. Every teaching that his tutors had drilled into him come into fruition. This is what he should have done from the start, but he had always been wanting and selfish. Look at where it landed him, reeling from loss and leaving a path of destruction in his wake.

That was the hardest part. The fact that he had been the cause of death every time. He had killed Dandelion by being distracted. He had killed Buttercup through neglect and not finding a cure. He had killed Julian by making him the potion that stopped him breathing.

Still, with all the hurt in his heart and the knowledge that he should focus on the Path, when twenty years have passed Geralt can’t help but hope. It was when he had met him every time before. And even though it hurts to even think about Julian, he’s greedy to see that smile and hear his voice just one more time.

Geralt can’t help the eager anxiety that is a continual presence in his stomach. He spends longer in towns than is strictly necessary. He travels slower and keeps an ear out for talk of any new bards in town.

Sometimes he’ll hear a lute being played in a town square, quicken his pace hoping to see him only to find some other minstrel. It’s never him. There’s never any word.

He isn’t sure what he’ll do when he sees him again. Geralt thinks his heart might give out on the spot, all the pain and longing finally too much. He thinks he might race to him and hold him and kiss him. He thinks he might walk away, unable to look at him again when he knows it won’t be _Julian_. It’ll be a new man, with a new name and a new history, and no memory of their life together.

* * *

The years drag on. Geralt becomes a little desperate on his search. He still doesn’t know if he can even stomach seeing him again but he can’t resist the pull that takes him all over the Continent. Soon twenty-five years have passed, by this point before he had already found him. Then it’s nearly thirty years and he still hasn’t.

Geralt finds himself travelling north again. He has avoided the coast and Kovir ever since he left but his gut tells him to go there. He has just left Redania when he finds a flyer for a gravier. He knows there haven’t been any in these parts for years, but he finds a kikimora along the way and figures if the alderman is advertising for monster parts he’ll be glad of any that get brought to him.

Then he makes his way to Blaviken.

Of course, the tavern he walks into to ask for directions isn’t happy to have him there. They never are. Without a bard by his side, there was nothing to humanise him, nothing to appease his presence. He thinks of the village in Kovir he had called home for nearly fifty years; they had treated him like any other human and returning to the hatred of the world after that had been its own challenge.

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?” a voice cuts off the man hurling insults at him.

Geralt blinks in surprise that someone would come to his defence, only one person ever had. He turns to face the woman, she is beautiful to be sure, fierce, and if he hadn’t given his heart so completely to another he thinks it would be easy to fall for her.

“Witchers can’t be trusted,” the innkeeper spits. Not the most creative of insults but Geralt doesn’t want to stick around any longer. The woman’s gaze keeps him in place, though.

The woman gives a withering and dismissive look, “I apologise for my man’s interference in your day. Hopefully he can improve his behaviour by tomorrow’s market.”

“Sorry, Renfri.”

Renfri returns to the bar and Geralt finds himself following as she orders them both a beer and offers him breakfast.

She smells very faintly of chamomile and that sends his stomach plummeting. He wonders if he’s finally found Julian again. She certainly acts like him, bold and uncaring of others opinions, uncaring that he was a Witcher. She has a similar glint in her eyes and that soap was one of those unchanging things about him.

But her eyes are different. His eyes had always been the same, no matter how different he wore his hair, no matter how thin or muscular he was, his eyes had remained the same. That dazzling blue with a darker ring and the smallest flecks of gold if he looked hard enough.

Renfri doesn’t have his eyes. They’re brown. Beautiful but wrong.

Geralt sighs internally as his briefest hopes are crushed. He begins to think he’ll never find Julian again. Maybe he hadn’t come back this time. He doesn’t know what had caused him to return over and over, hadn’t dared to find an answer lest he ruin it. He wonders if whatever it had been was satiated now; Julian had died of old age, not before his time, and maybe that was all it took.

“So, what brings you to Blaviken, white hair?”

The question snaps Geralt out of his thoughts. He turns his attention to her, no matter how much she reminds him of what he might never have again. He tells her about travelling and hunting monsters, the first proper conversation he’s had with someone who isn’t a Witcher in years.

She looks him up and down like she can see deep into his soul. Like she can see his whole history written in ink. “More and more I find monsters wherever I go.”

Geralt knows she doesn’t mean real monsters. She means humans. Or maybe she means him, if she can truly see all the suffering he’s caused.

He’s led away by the young girl who promises to bring him to the alderman. He can’t shake the thought of Renfri, can’t understand why she reminds him so much of Julian – although the way she held herself with confidence reminded him more of Dandelion.

“How much for your kikimora then?” the girl asks, rambling on about killing rats and how she’s unafraid of him. He can’t smell fear on her and he admires her bravery, there’s very few who can trail after a Witcher without fear. “My name’s Marilka, like milk. What’s yours?”

“Geralt.”

“Like garrotter.” Marilka keeps asking questions about him, begging to come with him to escape the ‘boring old market’ and the life she’s trapped in here. She’s so much like Buttercup it’s startling, endless energy and begging to escape the confines of small-town life. She’s not him though, again, her eyes are brown.

He’s tempted to let her come with him. The road is easier with someone by your side and he has no doubt she’d fair well. He can’t do it, though. Geralt knows that if he’d let her then she would die, whether within a few weeks or a few years she would die. There’s no guarantee she’ll live a long life in Blaviken but at least it won’t be his fault. He’s sick of falling too short and letting people die.

The tower she leads him to reeks of magic. Geralt isn’t in the mood to deal with sorcerers right now, he never is, but he needs to sell this kikimora. He’s low on coin and contracts are scarce in these parts.

Inside is even worse, a sunny paradise of naked women tending to plants. An illusion. He doesn’t want to meet the old man who would create these kinds of perverted mirages but he shoulders on until he comes face to face with him.

He looks exactly like what Geralt expects. Holding himself with the assured manner of someone with power, believing himself to be above everyone he speaks to. Geralt has met plenty of men like him and wishes he could go back in time to that cottage and escape it all.

Stregobor, as he finds out his name, looks at him in the same way as Renfri. As though he could see everything about Geralt. Except for this time he has the power to if he so wanted.

“I’d offer my condolences but I seem to recall that Witchers don’t feel,” Stregobor pauses, “Anything.” He stares at him for a long time with a taunting look daring Geralt to oppose him.

He’s sure the sorcerer has read his mind and can see the love and heartache written across it. If not then he’ll have heard of the Witcher who settled down along the coast not too far from here. Geralt says nothing, in no mood to partake in a game of wits.

“You don’t want my monster, you want me to kill yours,” he sighs. He wishes he hadn’t come to this town, wishes he had gone straight to Kovir where he knows they’ll welcome him without conditions.

“The worst kind,” Stregobor agrees, “The human kind.”

Geralt realises that the so-called monster is Renfri. If she truly is a monster that would explain why she was kind to him, only a monster would treat another monster like a friend.

Stregobor keeps talking in riddles and half-truths. A fanatic obsessed with old prophecies and he’s trying to draw Geralt into the middle of it. “Speak normally,” he demands.

“The curse of the black sun, first full eclipse in twelve hundred years.” He talks of sixty women supposedly cursed and mutated. Studied. Autopsied. Renfri is no monster, just a woman subjected to an old man's deliriums.

“Innocent women are dead.”

Stregobor defends his stance, telling him of all the evil Renfri has committed and the lives she has taken. If it’s true then Geralt thinks she might be a monster just the same as he is, but even if she is, it’s not his place to intervene.

“It’s the lesser evil.”

There’s no such thing. Whatever conflict there is between Renfri and Stregobor he’s not taking sides. A Witcher doesn’t involve himself with humans or their problems. If there’s no contract for a monster he won’t go about dealing justice. He leaves Stregobor’s tower and wonders what Julian would do if he were here.

He takes Roach and brings her to the river outside of town. There’s no point in even trying to find an inn for the night and it’s too late to keep travelling. Roach is the only thing keeping him going these days. A steady and reassuring presence by his side no matter what.

That’s where Renfri finds him. She’s come to ask him to kill Stregobor and Geralt curses his luck that they would both pit him against the other. “I used to be a princess, did he tell you that?” Renfri asks. “That was until he sent a thug into the woods to kill me.”

Geralt thinks of Julian, a prince no longer a prince with a family who wanted to kill him. Even when they had tried, he hadn’t wanted to kill them, hadn’t wanted revenge. Renfri looks like she’s lived her whole life wanting nothing but.

“You killed him.”

“With my mother’s brooch,” she says sardonically. “Stregobor’s man raped me, robbed me, and let me go. No more princess. I had to survive.”

Geralt has spent his whole life in the face of scorn and there have been plenty of times he could have killed them for their words. He can’t, though, he won’t. He pleads with Renfri to forgive and move on.

Renfri argues with him and her stubbornness is so familiar. It sparks the flame inside him that has long since been dampened. She refuses to let go of revenge, she chooses to be a monster, and Geralt dreads the thought of having to kill her.

She leaves but a while later he hears her lingering just outside where he’s made camp. Geralt tells Roach about his first kill, a man about to rape a girl. Both letting Renfri know that he will kill humans who are monsters and that he sympathises with her plight.

He doesn’t blame her, Julian would probably side with her, but he’s sworn off getting involved with humans – no matter what that involvement means. When he’s finished, Renfri reveals herself. He smells chamomile again and it still makes him ache.

“Who were you talking to?”

“My horse.”

“That’s sad.”

“Is it?” he challenges. Roach is the only one he can talk to these days. He thinks back to Julian teasing him for it, but he’d always catch him talking to Roach just the same.

He notices the flowers growing by the bank and leans down to pick one. It’s chamomile. That must be where the sweet scent was coming from. He inhales and for a brief moment feels the smallest amount of peace that could only be found in Julian’s arms.

Renfri tells him she’ll concede and give up her mission to kill Stregobor. Geralt breathes a sigh of relief, he’s free to move on, he won’t have to pick sides. And then she’s leaning in to kiss him.

His heart stops for a moment. The last person he kissed was Julian. He’s had a few whores since then but he never kissed them. It’s gentle, a softness he’s been lacking for decades.

Geralt kisses her back tentatively. His stomach twists guiltily but he pushes it aside, Julian had told him he still has love to give, had wanted him not to live his life in grief. Renfri is intoxicating, and if he were to love someone else, he could love her if she would let him.

The night passes in a blur. His every sense is consumed by Renfri. She’s standing above him whispering warnings of blood and a stoning, “You will try to outrun the girl in the woods and the boy in blue, but you cannot. They are your destiny.”

* * *

Bodies lay at his feet. It hadn't been hard to kill them. People begin to gather in the market and the stench of fear is strong.

Renfri appears holding her blade to Marilka’s throat. She’s chosen to be a monster. Perhaps he has too.

Their fight is fast and evenly matched, no one other than a fellow Witcher or Julian had ever been so skilled against him. He gains the upper hand and her knife slices through her neck with sickening ease.

Geralt looks into her eyes and holds her as she dies. Yet another person he has killed.

“They will be with you always,” she whispers in her final breath.

He might have loved her, given time, and he’s already caused her death. This was what he always did, why Vesemir had told him to stop playing the white knight.

The stoning doesn’t hurt as much as the regret filling him. He leaves as fast as he can; he might be able to escape Blaviken but it seems he can never escape being the source of destruction.

* * *

Geralt makes camp in the forest outside of Blaviken. It gets too dark for him to go much further and it’s still too close for his liking.

He smells blood on the air.

And that familiar smell that reminds him of Julian. There’s chamomile growing all over the forest, it must be that, but his heart still leaps at the thought of him being close. Even if by now he knows Julian will never come back.

His instincts tell him to head towards the bloodshed. Help whoever has befallen such a fate. But the bruises on his back remind him what kind of reception would await him.

Humans could never appreciate a Witcher. They were monsters in their eyes. Even when they helped.

He takes the saddlebags off Roach and dumps them on the ground. Roach huffs angrily and begins to walk towards the smell.

“Woah,” Geralt grabs her reins and ties her to a tree, “None of that.” He strokes down her nose and she nips at his fingers. She still tries to move towards it.

Geralt ignores her and begins to set up camp, he’s had enough of humans today. Roach continues to fuss until he bribes her with the last of the oats and she settles. Although the look she sends his way is judging.

Were it any other day he may have tried to play hero, but he had learnt his lesson.

The scent of blood on the air becomes thicker. Geralt hears a faint cry in the distance. He grits his teeth and ignores it, setting up a small fire. A while later he hears the laughs and shouts of a group. They were nowhere near his camp but he removes a few sticks from the fire to make it smaller just in case.

He has no energy to kill a group of bandits if they decided to pick a fight with him. Geralt doesn’t hear any more cries of pain, nor does he smell more blood, they had killed whatever poor traveller they had come across.

Guilt curls in his stomach. He could have helped. All he was good for was letting innocents die.

Everyone he had ever loved. Renfri. This traveller.

He falls into a fitful sleep where he is haunted by those he let down. When he wakes, he leads Roach away from the direction he heard the bandits, the scent of blood still thick on the air.

The next town he reaches only takes one look at him before they’re throwing stones. “It’s the Butcher of Blaviken,” one man yells amongst the crowd and he doesn’t stay long enough to hear the rest. The next town he is greeted by the same epithet, and the next.

 _Butcher_.

Geralt wants to deny it, explain what happened, but he realises they are right. It’s inescapable. All he does is butcher, bringing death and killing those who would live if it weren’t for him.

He’s chased out of town after town in the following years, the slaughter still fresh on everyone’s minds. Eventually, it settles into a marker, something people call him without thinking about what truly happened in Blaviken. There’s no sign of Julian; Geralt hopes that he hasn’t come back, because there’s no way he could love him after this. After forty years he knows that he won’t see Julian again.

It’s what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry there's no geralt/jaskier in this chapter! hope you didn't find it too boring! its my shortest chapter yet at 3.7k. thank you to everyone who's been reviewing, comments are my life blood and i appreciate every single one <33


	12. serenade the forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of you guessed that this would happen and you're right! if you didnt then I'm sorry but we're not quite at jaskier yet, so for this chapter picture Joey Batey as Bobby in Stan Lee's Lucky Man! <3

Daffodil is seven years old and he is a stable boy. Or, the son of the horse master for the Creyden royal house. And he spends his days running between the legs of horses and climbing towers of hay. He likes the horses his father looks after and trains. He likes talking to them and telling them about his games and imaginary friends. His father laughs at him when he tells him that but Daffodil knows the horses like it because they talk back, in their own way.

He is telling one horse, Chestnut, about a recent battle he conquered with his sword (a stick he found) against an evil monster (a sack of oats). He hears a soft giggle from behind him. It’s the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

“Who are you?”

“Princess Renfri.”

“I’m Daffodil,” he extends his hand out and she takes it slowly as if he was playing a trick on her. “This is Chestnut.”

“Were you talking to her?” Renfri raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah. She talks back,” Daffodil defends.

Renfri steps forward and stops when she is next to him. They are the same height and both have unruly curly brown hair. But where he is dressed in muddy rags she is in a lovely red silk dress with lots of skirts.

“Hello,” Renfri greets Chestnut. Chestnut huffs and moves her nose to tap the top of Renfri’s head.

Renfri giggles again and Daffodil thinks it sounds like sunlight.

“Would you like to be my friend?” Daffodil asks hopefully.

Renfri looks at him for a long time. Like he’s setting a trap again. “Okay.”

Daffodil flashes her a brilliant smile which she returns. Her smile is small but genuine, tentative.

* * *

Renfri is his best friend in the whole world. She’ll come and find him and they’ll play for hours in the woods by the castle making up adventures until she says she has to leave for lessons.

He hates when she leaves because then he’s alone again. He still plays knights and adventures and slaying monsters until his father makes him do his chores, but it’s not as fun on his own.

“Do you think I could be a knight, da?” he swings his legs from the gate he’s sat on and takes a big bite of his apple.

“You have to be born noble to be a knight,” his father shakes his head.

“I am noble,” Daffodil jumps off the gate and mimes fighting with a sword, “The noblest and bravest in the land, sir Daffodil!”

His father laughs and ruffles his hair, “You have to be rich to be a knight, own lands and be a lord.”

Daffodil sags and looks up at him with wide eyes, “But we’re not rich.”

“No, we’re not,” his father sighs sadly, grabbing a brush for one of the horses.

“I’ll be rich one day, and then I can be a knight,” he says determinedly, “Do you think Ren can give me lands when she’s queen?”

“Ren?”

“Renfri.”

“The princess?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why would she give you anything, bud?” his father laughs.

Daffodil frowns, “Because we’re best friends.”

“Of course,” his father chuckles like he doesn’t believe him, “Hand me that pick?”

* * *

They’re huddled in their den in the woods. It had taken them a whole week to build but it was the perfect hiding space and base for all their games. They had built it when they were eight and now at ten it’s nearly too small. It’s a tight fit, especially with the big dress Renfri wears but it’s still theirs and perfect.

“Stregobor keeps asking to speak to me,” Renfri complains, drawing patterns with her fingers in the mud, “I hate him.”

“What does he want?” Daffodil speaks quietly, legs drawn up to his chest. He’s never met Stregobor but he thinks he might have seen him walking about the castle grounds. From what Renfri has told him he’s a bad man, he wishes he could be a knight to protect her properly.

Renfri shrugs, “He asks me weird questions. Like if I have any impulses, or anger.”

“That’s weird,” Daffodil picks up a fallen leaf and begins to rip it up into small pieces.

“He asked me if I killed a puppy.”

Daffodil pauses, “Did you?”

Renfri sends him a betrayed look, “No. I found one. The kitchen maid’s dog that lives in the servants quarters gave birth, and one was born not breathing. I was trying to get it to breathe.”

“Why did they think you killed it?”

Renfri shrugs, “My step-mother found me with the servants, I’m not supposed to go there. And then she saw the pup in my hands and started screaming.”

Daffodil chews the inside of his cheek, “I don’t like her.”

“Me neither.”

“Did you save the puppy?”

“No.”

* * *

“Almost,” Renfri hands him back the parchment with corrections written on it, “Try again.”

Daffodil takes it back and begins to trace the letters underneath his last attempt. “Do I have to do this? Can’t we just play like we used to?”

Renfri shakes her head, “Knowing how to spell your name is more important than playing dragons.”

“Is it?” Daffodil mutters bitterly and Renfri pretends to ignore him. Ever since they turned twelve Renfri doesn’t want to play anymore, which is fine because he enjoys her company, but she wants to teach him how to write and read which is less fine. The letters make his head hurt and he has no idea how she’s been able to do this since she was five.

He practices his letters while Renfri fusses with her dress. He swears with each year the skirts get bigger and the chest pieces get tighter. “I hate this stupid thing,” she shuffles in her dress, “I wish I could wear trousers like a boy.”

“You get to wear pretty clothes, though,” he points out, always a little envious of the silks and bright colours she wore.

“Pretty uncomfortable,” she retorts.

He snorts and then presents her with the parchment once more and she gives a nod of acceptance. “Good, come with me, the kitchens baking muffins and I can sneak us some.”

Daffodil doesn’t hesitate to follow her, even though his father had given him a list of tasks he hadn’t finished yet. They cross the courtyard, Renfri a few steps ahead of him. It’s a beautiful sunny day and there are enough people around that none of them notice the out of place sight of a stable boy walking with a princess. That is until Renfri stops dead in her tracks and Daffodil walks into her.

He looks ahead and sees what’s stopped her. And old man watching her, watching them, intently with a sick half-smile. Stregobor. “Go back to the stables,” Renfri commands, eyes locked with the wizard.

“No, I can-”

“Go.”

Daffodil doesn’t need to be told twice. He looks back at Stregobor whose eyes are now fixed on him, he can’t read his face but he doesn’t like being his focus. He runs back the way he came, occasionally looking back over his shoulder to see Stregobor still watching him and Renfri in the same place.

* * *

Daffodil is putting fresh hay in the stalls when he hears footsteps approach. It’s just after dark and his father left hours ago, leaving him in charge. He looks up and freezes at the sight of Stregobor walking slowly towards him.

He looks around the stables with disgust evident on his face and it pleases Daffodil that the man is uncomfortable, if a little offended that he finds his stables so disgusting.

“Can I help you?” he asks, sounding braver than he feels.

Stregobor’s eyes land on him, inspecting. “What’s your name, boy?”

Daffodil grabs a rag to wipe his hands, wondering why this feels like a deal with a fae where giving his name meant giving power. “Daffodil,” he says quietly.

Stregobor hums, still looking at him in a way that made his spine shiver. “Are you friends with her highness, Princess Renfri?”

It feels like a trick question. “I know her,” he decides on.

“Have you noticed anything about her? A tendency towards violence? A desire to hurt? Finding pleasure in harming others?”

Daffodil frowns and grits his teeth, “No.” His voice is more defiant than he expected, but after years of hearing about this man doing experiments on his best friend he thinks that Stregobor is the one with all those ‘tendencies’.

Stregobor huffs, “Do you know she’s cursed?”

Daffodil resists rolling his eyes, “Yeah.”

“Do you feel in danger around her? She might kill you.”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Stregobor gives him another long look, searching and seems to find what he wants. “Very well.” Without another word he turns and leaves the stables.

Daffodil lets out a shuddering breath and leans against a wall. He feels like he needs a bath after that interaction. He feels sorry for Renfri, who has had to deal with the wizard much more than he has.

* * *

“I’m leaving.”

Renfri is standing in the stable door and Daffodil looks up from shovelling hay into the horse’s pens. She is wearing a big dress and has a very small bag at her side.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving. Now. I came to say good-bye.”

Daffodil blinks rapidly. They had always joked about running away from home growing up. He never thought either of them would do it.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?” her eyes widen and she’s looking at him like he was looking at her a few seconds ago.

“You’re my best friend. I have nothing for me here if you leave. I’m coming with you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she chastises in that all-knowing way she has. “You’ll starve to death. Or be killed by bandits.”

“So might you,” Daffodil counters. “I’m coming.”

That’s how he finds himself putting on his thin coat and running after his best friend into the woods. They run until their feet are sore and their lungs are gasping for breath. And they laugh.

A week later they realise they are being followed. Or rather Renfri realises, somehow, Daffodil doesn’t really pry into her prophetic abilities. They manage to stay ahead of whoever is on their tails.

On the night that marks two weeks since they fled Daffodil strays further from their camp than he usually does. The recent rain has made finding firewood a more difficult chore. He’s been gone for an hour he presumes when Renfri comes crashing into view.

There’s blood on her hands and on her dress and face.

He drops the firewood and they run again.

Renfri is silent when they reach a river and Daffodil helps her clean up. He doesn’t ask her what happened but he can guess. They have to abandon her dress. For two days she is dressed in her thin underdress.

They spot a small camp just before the sun is setting. Renfri wants them to change direction but Daffodil makes them linger until all the campers go to bed. In the dead of night, he slips down from their position and manages to steal a set of clothes for Renfri.

They’re boys clothes and much too big for her but it’s better than her tattered underclothes. Renfri cuts her hair like a boy. They decide if anyone asks they could pass for brothers or maybe twins.

A month later they reach a town. Daffodil steals a lute from the market – if he can teach himself how to play, he can earn them money. If not, it’d make some handy firewood.

* * *

Renfri and Daffodil are twenty. It’s been five years since they ran away together.

He taught himself to play that lute he stole. He had ended up using it as firewood one winter but he stole another when spring came.

Daffodil is sat propped against a tree gently strumming a new song he’s been working on. Renfri is sat by the fire roasting a rabbit she caught for their dinner. Daffodil can’t imagine what his life would have been without her. He would have taken his father's position as horse master and spent his whole life shovelling horse shit. He does miss the horses though.

“Remember when we used to tell people we were brothers?” Renfri asks him.

It had been a few years since they had used that as their cover. As they had both aged it became clear that Renfri wasn’t a boy – but they no longer got questioned so it didn’t matter.

“Of course,” Daffodil replies not stopping playing.

“Sometimes I wish it were true. You’re like the brother I never had.”

It’s no secret to him that Renfri’s family were awful to her. Stregobor and her step-mother perfectly crafting the torture of the young princess.

“I am your brother. In the way that counts – by choice.”

Renfri snorts, “Sap.”

* * *

Daffodil plucks his lute softly, laying back against the pillows. Renfri had charmed the innkeeper into letting them stay for a few nights despite having no money. Renfri twirls her knife in her hand and repeatedly throws it into the wall opposite her, he has a feeling they won’t be paying for the damage either.

“I’m not going to run anymore,” she says, darting her eyes over to him before she gets up to retrieve her knife. “I’m sick of running. It’s him who should be running.”

His fingers still, “Ren, what do you mean?”

She sits cross-legged at the end of the bed, holding the tip of her knife against her finger and spinning it. He sees blood form but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. “I’m not running away anymore. The next time he finds me, I’m going to kill him.” Quick as a flash she throws the knife against the wall and it lands right in the centre of the cross she had drawn on it.

Daffodil sits up, “Are you sure? He’s a wizard, he can kill you before you even get close.”

Renfri nods, “I’m sure. He took my whole life from me. Right now I’m meant to a princess, married, and wishing I could run away with the stable boy,” she sends him a smile and he laughs and rolls his eyes.

“You don’t really want all that. You never did. You’d hate being a princess.”

She nods slowly, “True, but it should have been my choice. He took my choice. He took my life. I’m going to kill him.”

Daffodil knows when she’s made up her mind and there’s no way he can convince her not to. It’s a risk, a big risk, and he isn’t sure she’ll ever get the chance to kill Stregobor. He’ll be by her side for it all though.

* * *

“He’s here,” Renfri mutters lowly.

Daffodil looks around the crowd but can’t spot him. The city is bustling with people, everyone touching and brushing past each other as they make their way around. He’s sure he has bruises on his shoulders from being bashed into. He can hardly breathe in the stifling air, the heat and body odour of hundreds of people mingling with the smoke and smell of cooking meat from the market stalls.

“Where?”

“Over there,” Renfri angles her head but Daffodil still can’t see him. He catches sight of Renfri drawing her blade and keeping it tight to her. He can’t see Stregobor but Renfri’s eyes are locked on the distance.

She charges forward and within seconds he loses her in the crowd. He’s glad he left his lute at their campsite because it surely would have made navigating this thick crowd even worse; still, he finds his hands scrambling to his chest wanting to hold onto the strap for comfort.

Someone slams into him hard from behind and he nearly trips, were it not for the person barely a hands width in front of him. They both turn to yell at him and he quickly backs up, hitting into more people in his attempt to get away. The crowd is endless. No two people are going in the same direction. Daffodil thinks he might suffocate in between all these bodies pressing in on him.

He hears a scream carry across the street followed by even more. Then people start moving faster, running away from whatever the source of terror is. Renfri, he knows immediately will be in the centre of it. He hopes she’s finally killed Stregobor so they can end the manhunt.

Daffodil tries to push against the crowd but it’s impossible. He gets shoved to the ground in the commotion and his body slams into the cobblestones painfully. The pain is nothing compared to the panic that seizes his heart when the stampede doesn’t stop.

Faces and faces pass above him. The swathe of people never-ending. They tower above him, rushing and running and not even sparing him a glance. Daffodil does his best to curl up but there are too many people, his stomach and face are still exposed. Boots hit him as people step over him, some don’t even try.

A sharp heel scrapes over his face dangerously close to his eye and he feels the blood drip down his face. His breath comes in quick shallow pants. He doesn’t want to die like this.

Suddenly, a hand is on his arm and hoisting him up to his feet. He lets himself be pulled along with the crowd. He turns to see Renfri with a tight grip on his arm, her knife is missing but there’s blood all over her hands and a mean look in her eyes.

As they reach the outer streets the crowd disperses and they slow down. Daffodil swallows and pants, every nerve in his body alight. Renfri doesn’t stop, she keeps marching out of town and Daffodil has to jog to catch up with her.

“Did you do it?” he asks breathlessly.

“No,” Renfri grits, “He got away.”

“But,” he gestures at all the blood on her.

Renfri’s mouth twists into a grimace, “Someone else got in the way at the last second, damned crowd. Stabbed him by accident. Stregobor got away.”

Daffodil sags, it seems their manhunt will continue. He’ll follow Renfri to the ends of the Continent if that’s what it takes, she’s his family and his best friend. He understands why she insists of ending Stregobor’s life, he just hates seeing the rage and bloodthirst slowly consume her.

* * *

Daffodil doesn’t like going into towns.

When they had first run away it was a necessity. Their survival depended on them sticking together. And it also depended on them stealing what they could from towns. Occasionally, they also managed to steal coin and they could buy things. Renfri was the talent in the stealing part, Daffodil merely played the distraction.

At first, Daffodil played a damsel in distress. Causing a commotion by pretending to faint, or provoke someone who wouldn’t kill him in one blow into a fight. Then when everyone wasn’t looking Renfri would slip whatever she could find into their bags.

When Renfri stole him a lute the process became easier. Daffodil could play in the centre of the street to attract people to look his way.

Now, he can’t stand to be in towns. After the failed attempt on Stregobor’s life, they had spent a few weeks living in the forest as Renfri tracked him. The first town they had stopped at had a decent sized market and a bustling crowd. The crowd hadn’t been as large but the second Daffodil stepped into it his heart seized up. His chest tightened and he couldn’t breathe properly. All he could think about was being on the ground underneath a stampede of people.

The sight of large groups sends fear throughout him. It had taken a year before he worked up the courage to join Renfri on her trips to towns again. And even then he could only stand to be there for a short time.

They are twenty-three when Renfri gains her first followers. Daffodil is sat at a table close to the exit of the inn. It makes him feel safer to know he can leave as quickly as possible should he need to. Renfri has more reason to feel unsafe in town, she’s the one being chased by Stregobor after all, but she sits at his side relaxed. She’s on her third ale now and he’s only halfway through his first.

Daffodil had noticed the men staring at them some time ago. Or rather, at Renfri.

They don’t seem much older than they are, but the tattoos that cover their exposed skin and the scars that mar their faces suggests they can hold their own in a fight. Daffodil is already planning his exit strategy.

The shorter one comes over first.

“What kind of man lets his girl drink that much?” he directs at Daffodil but his eyes are glued to Renfri, lips curled with disgust.

Before Daffodil can even splutter out an answer Renfri is doing so for him.

“I’m not his girl. And I’ll drink as much as I like.” She’s calm and collected. Her elbow is resting on the back of Daffodils chair and she’s almost slumped in her seat. She does not give a single shit.

“It’s unladylike,” the man retorts and now the second man joins them. He is blocking Daffodil’s exit and he feels tense at the thought.

Renfri scoffs, “You’re just jealous I can out drink you. Now piss off.”

The second man laughs, “Sure, love.”

Renfri quirks an eyebrow and sits forward to lean her elbows against the table. “Tell you what, gentleman. If I can finish three ales before the both of you, you’ll piss off. If not then we’ll leave, and you won’t have to see my unladylike manners.”

The two men look at each other and nod. The nine ales are bought quickly. Daffodil is still on his first.

They take to chugging their drinks quickly and have attracted a small crowd. People are even placing bets. The two men are chugging like their life depends on it. Renfri hasn’t broken a sweat. Daffodil is bouncing his leg nervously – he knew he should’ve camped in the forest.

Unsurprisingly, Renfri wins the bet.

Surprisingly, instead of skulking out of the inn with their tails tucked between their legs, the two men offer to buy them both drinks.

The shorter man is called Stev and the taller called Morris. Daffodil’s nerves have calmed a little but the two men still set him on edge. They speak mostly to Renfri but he’s included in the conversation.

When they leave town at the end of the week Stev and Morris come with them. Daffodil isn’t entirely sure why. There’s something unnatural about the way they follow Renfri about and obey her every command. They’re loyal, but not in a way that has been earned yet.

Daffodil realises about a month later it must be to do with Renfri’s curse.

He doesn’t try and think about it after that.

* * *

_A scream is caught in his throat. He's back in that town underneath the stampede of people. He's pulled up and turns expecting to see Renfri, but instead, it's a man dressed in armour. He looks around and everyone is in armour, including himself, and there's a sword in his hands. The man who had lifted him in suddenly stabbed and he staggers backwards._

_He hits into something and spins around. He's no longer surrounded by people or wearing armour. He's in comfortable clothes in a garden by a cottage. A man with white hair comes into view and smiles softly. Daffodil wants to know who he is. He can't make his mouth move to ask but the man comes closer and kisses him._

_When he opens his eyes he's no longer in a garden by the cottage. He's in a stables, but it's not the stables back in Creyden. The man in white hair is there on top of a horse, he looks sad, and rides away._

Daffodil wakes gasping for breath. Renfri is still awake sat by the fire while everyone sleeps. She's watching him closely. "Nightmare?"

"Something like that?" he whispers, sitting up trying not to make noise and wake the others. "It was weird, it felt real."

"Maybe it was," Renfri shrugs.

"Hope not," he chuckles, thinking of the battlefield. Then he remembers the white-haired man and wishes it was.

* * *

“You’re really not coming?”

“Nope,” Daffodil pops the p and happily keeps strumming his lute.

Renfri sighs deeply. This is the fifth town he hasn’t come with her to in a row. Usually, he sucks it up and faces the fear that eats at his gut and joins her, but since her following became bigger he’s realised he doesn’t need to protect her anymore. “It’s just a town.”

“Convincing. You have others to keep you safe now. You don’t need me anymore.”

She looks a little put out at his words, “Maybe I want you.”

“I’ll be right here.”

“It’s not the same coming to town without you,” she argues. “You could sing for the people.”

Daffodil frowns and slows his plucking down but doesn’t stop playing. “It’s the people I want to get away from. I don’t trust them, Ren.”

“Me neither.”

“So be careful.”

Renfri sighs again and walks away with the four men who accompany them. After Stev and Morris they had picked up Powel and Jan. They were all under her spell as far as Daffodil could tell.

Daffodil only goes to town with them every so often. Usually when he needed a bath and there was no river nearby. He doesn’t know what she did to get Powel and Jan and he’s not sure he wants to know.

Often, Renfri will return with blood on her hands.

She had told him that some people had started calling her Shrike. He knows she has killed people. Lots of them. She doesn’t have to tell him.

They’ve been tracking Stregobor for several years now. When they had started that was when Daffodil started to get an uneasy feeling about going into towns. He feels safer in the woods.

Despite the openness of them he feels more protected here.

He plays to keep himself company. Sometimes he can feel the magic of the forest. Like something within him is calling out to its kin. He’s heard the rustle of things approaching him and his lonely camp before – he keeps on singing and the rustle retreats. Other times it’s wisps of magic, the same he feels emanating off Renfri, they come and kiss his cheeks and go on their way.

He serenades the forest and it’s magic as if it’s a lost love.

_Something in the way you bloom  
Soft cracks, subtly scratched, and skewed  
Lullabies and afternoons  
You've past, withering fast, confused_

_Something in the way we move  
Camouflaged, everyone hides in two's  
Entourage, go chase the group  
It's a rats race, always afraid, to lose_

_But I know, it's a mistake  
Falling in love, to make a friend stay  
Disgrace, give me a break  
I'm trying to die happy someday  
Heaven, let me come stay?  
What would it cost  
How would I pay?  
Please just, save me a place  
Tired and I'm awake_

Daffodil already has a large fire blazing by the time the entourage return. Renfri has a new man with her. He doesn’t catch his name and he doesn’t care enough to ask. The stench of town they carry with them is enough to set his nerves off. “Good day?” he asks and tries to ignore the anxiety licking at his insides.

“Productive,” Renfri nods and takes a bite of some spit-roasted meat. He notices the blood under her fingernails. “You?”

“I sang for the flowers and the trees.”

Renfri huffs a laugh. “I’m sure they appreciate it.”

Daffodil laughs with her. But he knows they do appreciate it.

* * *

He’s sitting alone in camp again.

The group hadn’t returned last night and he had been up the whole time worrying. Wondering if this was the time they wouldn’t come back. If Renfri wouldn’t. He didn’t particularly care about the rest of their band.

They weren’t awful people. In fact, they could be quite lovely. They wouldn’t let him skip a meal or if he ever somehow got injured they made sure he was all patched up. But at the end of the day, if they came back without Renfri, Daffodil would leave them.

It’s midday when they finally trudge into camp.

Daffodil is stubborn. He doesn’t jump to greet Renfri like he wants to. Instead, he stays leaning back against a tree with his lute by his side taking in the sun.

“I got you something,” Renfri says by way of greeting when she finds him.

“It better not be another one,” Daffodil eyes the new man following behind her.

This is the seventh man who has fallen under Renfri’s charm. Daffodil doesn’t like them very much; they all like to show off how manly they are and fight each other over no reason.

He doesn’t exactly know why they choose to follow the former princess. She is beautiful and enchanting, of course. And there’s some sort of magic involved that he doesn’t want to know the detail of. He has often wondered why he isn’t similarly under her spell. Perhaps he is and doesn’t realise. But he’s assured his love for Renfri isn’t the same as their devotion – that’s why he doesn’t follow her into town. He is making his own choices.

“No,” Renfri smirks, “It’s this.”

She holds out her hand and presents to him a ring. A very lovely ring. It has a thick gold band and, in the middle, a large black gemstone.

He takes it hesitantly. “Ren, this must have cost a lot of money.”

She shrugs, “Not really.” She sits cross-legged opposite him and pulls at the grass. He’s known her long enough to know that this is a nervous habit of her and he’s the only one who gets to see her this way. “I’ve been trying to find a place to have it made for a while now. You’re my brother, in all the ways that count. So, this is a symbol of that.”

“Thank you,” he puts it on his right ring finger. It’s a perfect fit. “I love it.”

“It represents us,” she explains quietly avoiding his eyes. “It’s an onyx. For the black sun I was born under. And gold, for the flowers of your name.” Her cheeks tint pink with embarrassment.

“Ren,” Daffodil doesn’t know what to say. He pulls her in for a hug. She tenses at first, like she always does, and reciprocates. He pulls back suddenly and grabs his lute from his side. “Give me your knife.”

“What?”

“Your knife.”

Hesitantly she hands over her small blade. Daffodil takes it by the handle and starts to carve into the wood of his lute along the curve of the top.

_Daffodil_

_Renfri_

He displays it proudly to her and she rolls her eyes. “Always so dramatic,” her voice is exasperated but Daffodil can see beneath all that. Can see what it really means to her.

“Now, c’mon. It’s time to eat.” She stands up and offers him a hand. He takes it and they join the rest of their slowly growing group.

* * *

Daffodil shoves his hands deeply in his pockets and hunches in on himself. The town is grey and muddy but thankfully the population seems sparse. He’s only joined Renfri and her group on this trip because he desperately needs new lute strings.

Renfri took her men to the local inn to ask about Stregobor. She’d tracked him all the way here and now they’ve arrived no one knows of his name. The only mage in these parts is Master Irion, who has been their wizard as long as anyone can remember.

He takes a deep breath when he reaches the street the market is held on. The crowd is still small but a shot of panic still makes itself known. He pushes it down as best he can and walks through the street until he finds a music stand. The merchant doesn’t have much to offer but thankfully has the lute strings.

“Can you play that then?” a voice pops up beside him.

Daffodil startles at the sudden intrusion but calms his rapid pulse when he sees the girl looking up at him with wide curious eyes.

“What?”

“Can you play that?” she points to the lute on his back, “Are you going to play for us all later?”

Daffodil licks his lips slowly, “Yeah, I can play. And probably not.”

The girl looks disappointed but continues to follow him when he begins to walk away. “You’re new in town. I know everyone here and I’ve never seen you before.”

Daffodil smiles and nods, “I am.”

“Are you with the others? I saw them all going to the inn. They looked scary but I'm not scared of them. You don’t look scary.”

“I’m with them,” he nods, “And I can be scary when I want.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your name?”

“Daffodil.”

The girl laughs, “Like the flower?” He nods and her giggles subside, “Daffodils mean birth and rebeginnings, did you know that? My name’s Marilka, like milk.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Marilka,” he smiles and finds that it’s true. He hasn’t felt comfortable around strangers in a long time but there’s something about this girl that he likes. She reminds him of what he could be if he wasn’t so damn scared all the time.

They walk in silence for a moment, a very brief moment before Marilka keeps talking. “Can I come with you and your band of merry men?”

“What,” he chokes on his own spit. The girl certainly hasn’t met Renfri to have fallen under her spell, so why did she want to join them?

“I hate it here. It’s boring. The only thing interesting is Master Irion, and he’s just some old man. Please, take me with you.”

Daffodil sighs, “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“One, it’s not my decision. And two, it’s not a good life. We live on the roads, it’s not safe, it’s kill or be killed.”

Marilka shrugs, “I killed my dog. It was easy.”

Daffodil doesn’t have time to respond because Nohorn is next to him and slinging his arm over his shoulder. “We found him,” Nohorn whispers in his ear, “We’ve got Stregobor.”

His stomach sinks. It’s been years since he’s seen Stregobor but he can still remember the feeling of his beady eyes on him. He flashes an apologetic smile at Marilka and lets Nohorn lead him away.

“She’s cute, you finally getting a girl?” Nohorn laughs.

They regroup outside of town and make a camp. Renfri tells them that they’ve finally got Stregobor cornered, and they won’t leave until he comes out of his tower.

He plays for them after he eats, and in his heart, he plays for Marilka and the songs she will never hear him play. Daffodil thinks this might be the last song the lot of them hear him play because something tells him they’ve reached the end of their journey.

_I have never known peace_

_Like the damp grass that yields to me_

_I have never known hunger_

_Like these insects that feast on me_

_I have never known sleep_

_Like the slumber that creeps to me_

_I have never known colour_

_Like this morning reveals to me_

_And you haven’t moves an inch_

_Such that I would not know_

_If you sleep always like this_

_The flesh calmly going cold_

_We lay here for years or for hours_

_Thrown here or found_

_To freeze or to thaw_

_So long we become the flowers_

_Two corpses we were_

_Two corpses I saw_

_And they’d find us in a week_

_When the weather gets hot_

_After the insects have made their claim_

_After the foxes have known our taste_

_I'd be home with you_

_I'd be home with you_

Daffodils voice fades out and the camp remains quiet. He shouldn’t have played such a maudlin song but he couldn’t play anything else. He looks around at the men he’s spent the last few years with, he may not like them but they were his family. He lands on Renfri last and she’s looking right back at him as if she can read his thoughts.

He offers her a sad smile which she doesn’t return.

* * *

“Please come. Just this once,” Renfri’s voice takes on a begging tone she rarely uses.

Daffodil sighs, “What’s so special about Blaviken anyway?”

Blaviken hadn’t been so bad and he finds himself wishing he had told Marilka to join them; but the knowledge that Stregobor is there prevents him from going back. It’s not just his fear of the wizard but the way Renfri becomes someone else when he’s nearby, driven to near madness with the thought of vengeance.

“Your destiny is in that town,” Renfri replies, her voice is no longer begging. In fact, it doesn’t seem to belong to her at all. The words slip out against her will as though something is speaking through her.

Daffodil has seen it a few times before. Renfri doesn’t seem fazed by it but he thinks that she has convinced herself that nothing can anymore.

“Ren, if my destiny is in that town then it’ll find me outside of that town.”

Renfri’s face pulls into a stubborn frown. “Brat,” she mutters, and kicks his foot none too gently.

Daffodil smiles sweetly, “You love me.”

Renfri quirks a disbelieving eyebrow but they both know he’s right.

“It’s Stregobor. I need you by my side.”

“You always hid me from him before.”

Renfri looks around the forest helplessly. Daffodil is sure it must be frustrating that he is the only one who can resist her charm. “This is different. It’s not him after me anymore. This is the end.”

“If you really need me then come back and I’ll follow. But not unless I have to.”

“Fine.”

Renfri doesn’t come back.

* * *

He is playing for the trees again. The breeze caresses his face in time with the beat and the birds harmonise with his songs. Renfri and her troupe had been gone for a few days now.

Yesterday his feet had taken him wandering so far he had almost reached the edge of the town. He was close enough to hear the hubbub and the hum but not close enough to see anything. Towering over the trees is Stregobor’s tower. The mere sight is enough to strike fear into his heart.

He had only spoken to him once. Stregobor had seen him a few more times after that and always with that searching stare, but he never spoke to him again. Renfri had kept him hidden from the sorcerer and he didn’t know what the man wanted with a boy when he had a cursed princess.

Daffodil staggers backwards away from the tower. The trees help and the canopy of leaves seems to grow thicker and the blinding sun brighter until the tower is out of view. He turns on his heels and runs, the forest paths that weren’t there before leading him back to camp. Chamomile flowers grow rapidly from the ground guiding the way.

He wishes Renfri was here. Wishes that she would let go of her revenge mission and travel far away from here. Maybe they could go to the coast. He’d never seen the ocean before.

When he makes camp by himself, he camps closer to the roadside. Renfri calls him a fool for it, after all, the closer he is to the road the closer he is to bandits. Daffodil prefers it closer to the road because it means he can see those travelling by. He can make up stories about who they are and what they are doing. Sometimes, if they notice him, they’ll stop to talk. If he’s lucky they’ll even share their food and water.

He’s watching the road now.

Not many people seem to be travelling to and from Blaviken. If they had any sense they would feel the dark atmosphere that emanates from the town and infects the miles around it and turn tails and head elsewhere.

He hears the sound of hoofs before he sees the traveller. He’s far back from the road and hidden by the overgrown bushes but he can see the road clearly. A man riding a brown horse comes along the trail.

Daffodil knows this is no ordinary man. No man at all in fact. The sounds of the forest have fallen silent. The man has white hair and two swords strapped to his back. Some hideous monsters head is strapped to the side of the horse who seems unbothered.

A Witcher.

The thought comes unexpectedly. Daffodil doesn’t know what a Witcher is, he’s not even sure he’s ever heard the words before in his life. But that doesn’t stop the deep-rooted knowing that that is who this man in.

The Witcher passes and the forest rises from its stillness. Daffodil feels the overwhelming urge to follow the man. To find out his name. But the path leads into town and his self-control is greater than that.

He won’t go into town. Not unless Renfri comes back and asks for him.

_Your destiny is in that town._

No, he thinks, it is on its way into that town.

* * *

The urge to go to Blaviken is hard to resist. He plays his lute every waking minute to keep the itching in his fingers and feet at bay.

Daffodil watches the forest for any flicker of movement. He prays that Renfri, or any of her troupe, will come through the clearing to find him. Something is screaming inside of him that he should be in the town.

It had been over a day since the Witcher had gone into town. It had been nearly two weeks since Renfri left him. Today feels different, the air won’t settle around him.

The only thing stopping him from obeying his instinct is fear. He remembers seeing Stregobor’s tower and the terror it had struck within him. And as much as something inside him begs him to go, something just as strong begs him to stay.

He doesn’t know what but his instinct is telling him to avoid the town for his own safety.

* * *

Renfri doesn’t come back. None of them come back.

By nightfall the electric air has settled. Now it’s mournful. Daffodil can’t stop the tears that fall from his eyes. He knows deep in his heart that they will never come back.

He doesn’t hear the group of men who sneak up on him until it’s too late.

There’s fifteen of them. He begs for his life. They give him his life, for a while.

The tallest ties him to a tree with a thick rope that’s too tight and Daffodil struggles to breathe against his bound chest. They raid the camp and what belongings the others had left with him. They go through the bag one by one taking the weapons, food, spare clothes and any jewellery.

When they aren’t watching he has the sense of mind the work the ring Renfri gave him off his finger. It drops to the ground in between his legs. He shuffles so that the loose moss covers it.

Daffodil knows he likely won’t be leaving this encounter alive. If he isn’t then he doesn’t want these bandits to get their filthy fingers on the ring. If by some miracle he does survive then of all his possessions that is the one he needs. He could get another lute, but not another ring from Renfri.

When the bandits have had their fill of thievery, they turn their attention back to him. He remains as silent as he can during the beatings. They laugh and goad him. He bites his tongue so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

It doesn’t help. They get bored. One of them comes closer with a large dagger – one of the ones they had stolen from him. He shuts his eyes and squeezes them hard. He doesn’t want this mans face to be the last he sees.

He thinks of Renfri. Thinks of the Witcher he saw.

The dagger pushes into his chest and he can’t help the yell of agony that rips from his throat. He feels the blade break through his chest bone and easily slice through his insides. Daffodil keeps his eyes closed.

The man yanks the blade from his chest and blood runs down his chest hot and fast. It fills his lungs and he coughs up blood.

They take back their rope and he falls forward onto the ground. His fingers dig into the damp moss and grass and the pain is so overwhelming. He finds the ring and holds it tight in his palm.

The bandits leave before he dies. The last thing he hears is the birds singing. They don’t usually sing at this time. They’re singing a sad tune, one of his own songs, he realises. He’s too weak to sing with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daffodil can have a little chaos, as a treat.
> 
> The songs are Oliver Riot - Tired and Awake, and Hozier - In A Week. And yep, he was the traveller in the woods that Geralt heard being killed last chapter! Buuut that means next chapter we are at jaskier!! 
> 
> also I wrote an alternative ending for this chapter on my tumblr if you wanna check it out, sorry I cant make a link work! ((https://pansexualbuchanan.tumblr.com/post/621662933875916800/alternative-ending-to-chapter-12)) 
> 
> hope you enjoyed let me know! <3


	13. he has no claim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand were finally at jaskier!!!! (be warned its 13k) hope you enjoy! <3

Geralt ties up Roach outside the tavern, practically gagging for a drink. The hot summer sun was scorching and he had completed a steady stream of contracts over the last two weeks that had left him exhausted. He hoped, for the first time in a while, that this town wouldn’t have a monster problem and would just let him rest for a day or two.

Inside the tavern, he can hear someone tuning a lute, and his chest still tightens at the sound even though he’s long since accepted Julian won’t return. A table sits empty in the corner and he slides in before anyone can really notice him. The barmaid is quick to serve and seems more distracted by his swords to notice his yellow eyes.

The bard finally finishes tuning and begins to strum a lively tune. From where Geralt is sat he can’t see the bard but when he starts singing his heart stops.

He would recognise that voice anywhere and he feels like he’s been punched.

It didn’t make sense, it had been nearly fifty years this time. Whatever spell or curse had been lifted when Julian died of old age, surely, so how could he be back? Geralt draws in a shuddering breath as he remembers Julian’s frail body at the end. He had spent the decades following searching for him only to give up. And now he was here.

Geralt looks up and tears well up in his eyes at the sight. He can’t stand to look anymore and he quickly looks away. He hadn’t been prepared to see him young again. When he had last seen Julian, he was an old man, had been so for decades, he had wrinkles and grey hair.

Now he is full of youth, full of life. He prances around the tavern with ease, plucking at the strings with ease. He even puts his leg up on a stool at one point, a move which Julian wouldn’t have been able to do for years before he died.

Geralt had almost forgotten how radiant his love looked.

This isn’t his best performance, not by far. But it is still him. Still Dandelion, Buttercup, Julian. What name would he go by this time?

Then he realises he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to see him die again, which he will. Whether it be by monster, sickness, age or something new entirely. He can’t see it again. His heart had been broken into pieces too many times.

Everything inside him screams at him to go up to him and hold onto him for dear life while he has the chance. But he can’t.

He won’t.

He resolutely keeps his eyes on his ale. Even when the patrons begin to throw bread and yell and his body itches to intervene, he stays still. That’s his mistake because the bard takes his lack of reaction to be a personal invite.

“I love how you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt swallows and tenses. He’s in an all blue outfit that makes his eyes shine even brighter; he had forgotten how clear a blue they were. “I’m here to drink alone,” he dismisses, hating the words tumbling out of his mouth but they are necessary.

“Good, yeah, good,” the bard nods, seemingly undeterred by Geralt’s demeanour. "Come one, you don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting,” he grins and sits opposite him, “You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

Geralt has spent so long trying to hold onto the memory of his voice that it had become distorted over time; now it is clear as day, his accent lilting over the words in a way that couldn’t be replicated. Gods, how he wants to sit here and listen to it all day. But down that road leads more heartache.

“They don’t exist.”

The bard then takes his time guessing who he is. Geralt knows that he’s only got a few seconds before he realises who he is. Not just a Witcher, but the Butcher of Blaviken. Even if Geralt was interested in pursuing him this time, which he isn’t, then his new moniker would stop that in its tracks.

Geralt stands, tossing him his last coin. He gathers his swords and makes to leave. His heart grows heavy with every step that carries him away.

“Called it!” the bard sing songs and finally the people notice him.

A man begs him to take a job and he really needs the distraction right now so takes it. He leads Roach away from the tavern and takes the path that leads further into the mountains. It isn’t long until he hears footsteps racing to catch up with him. He doesn’t need to look back to see who it is.

“Need a hand? I’ve got two!”

“Go away,” Geralt growls. He desperately wants him by his side but it’s best for both of them this way.

“I won’t be but silent back up,” the bard assures, easily falling into step beside him. Geralt looks at him out of the corner of his eye and it hurts to see him. He expects the signs of age to be clear on his face, but there’s not even the slightest wrinkle in sight. “You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

Death and heartbreak were right, and if he knew what was good for him he’d stay well away.

“I could be your barker! Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken,” the bard spreads his arms and says the name Butcher like it’s some grand title rather than the gruesome reality.

“Come here,” he beckons and punches him in the gut.

He swallows down his guilt as the bard goes sprawling to the ground. Geralt takes Roach again and leads her away. He doesn’t want to be the source of pain but a punch is better than being torn limb from limb by a monster.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t put the bard off. The treacherous part of Geralt’s heart picks up when he continues to trail after him.

“Reading between the attitude and the gut punches, chum, I’d say you’ve got a bit of an image problem,” he says as he catches up. “Were I to join you I could relieve you of that title,” he rambles and Geralt doesn’t care that it’s an absurd notion to think he could ever be rid of that name, his heart soothes and aches in unison at his voice.

He tries to join him on Roach and Geralt knows that if he did then he wouldn’t be able to resist. Then he tells him how the land used to belong to the elves and Geralt realises he’s found his way to Julian’s last battlefront. There should be elves in these mountains, if they hadn’t left by now. If they hadn’t then he’s certain the bard will be recognised.

Geralt keeps his answers short and limited hoping he’ll leave but he remains steadfast. That is until a projectile knocks him out. He doesn’t have time to panic over his safety before a goat-man is charging at him.

* * *

When he wakes up he realises his hands are bound with rope and there is a body pressed against his. He looks around but only sees a dusty cave and no way to escape. This just proved everything he had told himself; he couldn’t protect the bard, he didn’t deserve him.

“This is the part where we escape.”

Geralt curses the man having such faith in him, “This is the part where they kill us.”

They are joined by a very angry female elf and another who has got his hands on the lute. The bard screams at them and talks back in perfect elder. After the war, Julian had come back speaking near fluent elder and had spent his years developing his skill in his letters. Geralt had heard him speak it hundreds of times, and now it was falling seamlessly off his lips once more. He half dared to hope that this time he would remember but knew he never would.

“You hide in your golden palaces. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye,” the bard yells and Geralt can’t help but quirk a smile. This time round nothing seemed to scare him, not Geralt nor impending death at the hands of his captors.

Geralt headbutts the elf and she falls back. The victory is short-lived, however, when she starts coughing and another elf enters the cave. Filavandrel. He watches him carefully but the elf doesn’t seem to realise that Julian, or whatever his name is this time, is here. That would certainly be one way for it all to come out.

“Forced out?” the bard interrupts the conversation and Geralt tenses. He sees Filavandrel finally notice who he is and blinks in shock. He watches for any further reaction but the elf king gives none. “No, they chose-”

“Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home? To starve?” Filavandrel cuts him off, a look of betrayal on his face.

Geralt wonders if the elf realises who he is too, he knows Julian spoke of him. He wonders if that matters at all. He draws Filavandrel’s attention off no-longer-Julian and tries to convince him to at least let the bard go. Then the elf tells him about the Great Cleansing – of course, he had heard about what Julian went through and the horrors, but hearing it from what was one of Julian’s closest friends added a new tragedy. He feels the bard slump against his back and can smell the sadness pouring off him, perhaps some deep part of him remembering the war firsthand.

He gets nowhere with bargaining for their lives. This wasn’t how he had ever expected to die, he knew it would be a hunt but he suspected it would involve more swords. “If you must kill me, I am ready.” It’s true, he is ready to die and has been since he lost Julian. Now he finally has him back, and if he’s going to die at the hands of elves then at least this time Geralt can die with him.

* * *

The lyrics trail off and the bard looks up at him, “What do you think?” he looks up at him for a response. Geralt grunts to hide the fact that tears had nearly left his eyes, both from the nature of the lyrics singing his praises and because he was hearing him sing properly.

Unfazed, he grins, “I’ll take that to mean ‘yes Jaskier, what wonderful work, Jaskier.”

Geralt licks his lips. So that was his name this time. _Jaskier._

They make it back to Posada after the sun has set. Jaskier already has a room and lets Geralt in to clean himself up. He had even offered to let him stay the night seeing as Geralt doesn’t have his own room.

Geralt is tempted to agree. Despite his best efforts to ignore the bard he still feels the pull to be close to him. Every second that passes that he isn’t holding him close feels like a wasted opportunity. But he knows it's necessary. He had made the mistake of letting him die because of him too many times. It had nearly happened already. No, he had to keep his distance.

He should have left by now. Taken Roach and camped out of town. But he never makes the right choice and he is staying to hear Jaskier sing.

Jaskier is set up on the other side of the inn. The crowd already rolling their eyes at the sight of him, no doubt remembering the horrible performance of this morning. Jaskier seems unfazed and proudly launches into the song he had written on their hike back to town.

Surprisingly, the crowd loves it.

“Is that true bard?” a man calls out. The whole tavern is suddenly looking between Jaskier and Geralt and Geralt avoids their eyes as much as possible.

“Every word,” Jaskier swears resolutely. Geralt rolls his eyes.

The man who had spoken stands up and walks over to Geralt. He eyes him up warily and then fishes something out of his pocket and tosses it to Geralt. It’s a coin pouch.

“I’ve already been paid for the contract,” Geralt holds the coin pouch out for the man to take back.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I thank you, Witcher, for getting rid of those filthy elves.”

Geralt eyes the man like he’s grown three heads. He meets Jaskier’s eyes over the man’s shoulder, the bard is grinning smugly. Geralt’s heart warms at that smile.

He can’t let himself fall in love again. He won’t do it.

“Thank you,” he nods to the man. The man pats his shoulder and leaves them be.

Jaskier crosses the small distance to their table and sits opposite him practically vibrating with excitement. “See? Told you I could solve your image problem. Does this mean I can tag along with you on your adventures?”

Geralt already knows he can’t resist him. Could never truly just walk away from him. As long as he doesn’t get attached this time and doesn’t let him get too close to any danger then it should be fine.

“Hmm.”

* * *

“Geralt, look out!”

Geralt growls and whips his head round to see Jaskier at the edge of the clearing, notebook and quill in hand. Definitely not where he had left him safe at camp with Roach.

He nearly misses the swipe of the cockatrice, he wouldn’t have if he wasn’t distracted. It takes a few more blows to slay the beast, his body and mind working overtime to kill the monster even faster now that Jaskier is in danger.

Jaskier comes over when the cockatrice lies still, stepping gingerly over the grass and making a disgusted face at the corpse. He scribbles something quickly and then looks up to Geralt with a grin, “That was brilliant.”

Geralt grits his teeth, “I told you to stay at camp.” He pulls his sword from where it’s lodged in the cockatrice’s body and begins to hack off its head ignoring the gagging coming from Jaskier.

“Yes, you did, but last time I did that you came back and said ‘killed it’. Hardly a story. How am I meant to improve your reputation if I don’t see your heroic deeds,” Jaskier places his hands on his hips indignantly.

“It’s not heroic,” Geralt grunts as he yanks the head and a few bits of inside fall sloppily to the ground. Silently, he begins to walk back to camp not checking if Jaskier is following. He knows he will.

It’s been two weeks since they left Posada and Jaskier has been a constant presence by his side. The first few days had been the worst, when all he could see when he looked at him was Julian and the anguish was nearly too much to live with. That faded into anger by the end of the week. How was it fair that Julian, who had done so much good, should be erased from the world, replaced by someone who looks like him and speaks like him but is a different man entirely?

Where Julian had been thankful for whatever Geralt hunted for them in lean seasons, Jaskier had no problem complaining about tough flavourless meat. Where Julian would sing soft love songs, Jaskier had only been composing songs about Geralt’s deeds as a Witcher. Where Julian would laugh and fall into his side, pressing sweet kisses to his neck, Jaskier will laugh and only pat Geralt’s shoulder if he was particularly amused.

The fire is still blazing when he reaches camp, and Roach doesn’t appear to have minded their absence. Immediately, Jaskier rushes past him to the lute he had left by his bedroll and begins composing. “What rhymes with cockatrice?” he asks out loud, tongue poking out of his mouth as he thinks.

Geralt ignores him and takes his armour off. It’s in need of cleaning but he has a wound on his side that needs caring to first. He sits on a boulder and shucks his shirt off. His side is covered in blood but the wound itself isn’t too large and will be healed within a few days.

He wipes it clean as best he can with his already ruined shirt and reaches for his medical kit.

“You’re injured?” Jaskier is by his side quickly and pressing his hands against Geralt’s chest and side to angle him closer to the light of the fire. Wordlessly he takes the kit from Geralt’s hands and tuts, “You haven’t even washed it properly.”

Jaskier fetches a rag and pours some water on it and begins to gently wipe away the dried blood around the wound and then even more gently over the cut itself removing any dirt. Geralt holds his breath the whole time, not feeling the pain over the electric feeling of Jaskier’s featherlight touches on his skin.

The first touch of the needle to his skin sting and he hisses and shuffles Jaskier puts a hand on his leg, halfway up his thigh, warm and solid to steady him and murmurs soft assurances. He takes his hand away to stitch better and Geralt wishes he would put it back.

He stitches quickly and with a proficiency an eighteen-year-old shouldn’t have. When he’s done he looks up at Geralt with those big blue eyes and it would be so easy to lean down and kiss him.

But he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t.

He clears his throat and nods his thanks. Geralt stands and moves away to find a clean shirt, Jaskier lingers perched by the rock for a moment longer then moves too. The rest of the night is quiet apart from Jaskier’s composing, he doesn’t even complain about the taste of the squirrel Geralt cooks them for dinner.

* * *

They run fast out of town. They’d been there less than an hour before the townspeople had gathered pitchforks and torches and stones. Jaskier is at his side easily keeping up with him and Geralt is glad he left Roach at their campsite.

The mob stops following them a little ways out of town but they keep sprinting until they reach their camp. Even Geralt is a little out of breath by the time they stop.

Jaskier doubles over and puts his hands on his knees as he pants hard, and then he starts laughing. A small chuckle working its way up to loud laughter. Geralt can’t help but laugh too, the first time he can remember laughing in a long time.

“Did you see his face?” Jaskier giggles, “Y-y-you’re a-a a Witcher!” he does a bad impression of the first man who had noticed who Geralt was. “He looked like he was going to shit himself,” he snorts.

Geralt laughs and shakes his head. Jaskier looks over and catches his eyes with the biggest grin and if Geralt feels himself blush he blames it on the running. “Did you get hit?” he asks as their laughter dies down. A few stones had hit his back but nothing that would leave a bruise.

Jaskier waves his hands, “What’s a few stones compared to the scathing song I’m about to write about cowards who are afraid of Witchers?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Calling people cowards won’t improve my reputation.”

Jaskier only grins and settles on the ground with his lute, “Don’t underestimate my lyrical genius.”

Geralt ignores the flutter in his heart and lights a fire before leaving to hunt some dinner. He had never thought running away from a mob could be something he would laugh about but Jaskier had easily turned his dejection into happiness.

The bard wasn’t so bad, after all. Maybe one day he could accept him as a friend.

* * *

It takes three months for Jaskier to leave.

“So, where are you headed next?” Jaskier asks and Geralt nearly misses the fact that he said ‘you’ instead of the usual ‘we’.

“Toussaint.”

Jaskier’s shoulders sag, “Oh, right. I’ve actually been planning to go to a bardic competition in Cidaris. There’s someone there I need to beat.”

Geralt ignores the stab of pain at their opposite plans of travel. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Jaskier had his fill of following him and he likely wouldn’t see him again. “This is where we part ways then,” he keeps his voice casual.

“Right, yeah,” Jaskier licks his lips. His fingers brush over each other nervously and he looks like he wants to say something. “Right, see you around, then.”

Geralt watches him walk down the path opposite to him at the crossroads for just a second too long and then nudges Roach forwards. The road is quiet without him. Seemingly even quieter than all those years after Julian.

It was for the best that he wouldn’t see him again. He hadn’t caused his death. So why did it feel so wrong to go separate ways?

* * *

It only takes two months before they cross paths again, this time in Sodden. Geralt is walking through the market when he hears someone call his name and then Jaskier comes bounding up to him.

“Geralt,” he grins, knocking his shoulder into his, “What’s it been? Months? Years? It feels like an eternity.”

“Jaskier,” he greets, unable to keep a small smile off his face.

Jaskier tells him about the bardic competition and something about his sworn nemesis, speaking a mile a minute about everything he’s been up to. Geralt is happy to listen, inputting the occasional hum when Jaskier looks to him for a response.

They end up travelling together despite Geralt screaming at himself internally for letting it happen. This time they travel for a month before autumn draws to a close.

Geralt travels with Jaskier to Oxenfurt where he will spend the winter. He tells himself it’s purely to keep the bard safe, the nights came sooner and darker and it would be his fault if he was attacked because he wasn’t there to protect him.

Jaskier parts with another ‘see you around’ and this time Geralt thinks that he truly will. Come spring it only takes a few weeks before they find each other again. Geralt gets used to travelling with him; Jaskier will stay with him for months at a time until something calls him away. He’ll part with that same phrase, never saying a proper goodbye.

Geralt tells himself he doesn’t mind the months he travels alone. Tells himself he is grateful for the blessed silence. Jaskier is most certainly the loudest iteration of himself yet, every second is filled by some noise whether it be his idle chatter, his lute or the drumming of his fingers on his leg.

Still, the promise that he will see him again drives him along the Path, eager to run into him again.

* * *

Jaskier gasps and staggers back as if he has been mortally wounded, “Geralt, how could you?”

Geralt frowns, pausing his motions of whittling a piece of wood into a miniature horse. It was a hobby he had picked up in the long decades after Julian had died; without anyone for company the road was boring, and he could only sharpen his weapons and clean his armour so much. He didn’t know when but along the way he had started whittling wood to pass the time.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier looks hurt and betrayed and Geralt really doesn’t see what the problem is.

“It’s not important,” he shrugs.

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, “Oh, I think it is. Your birthday was a week ago and we did nothing. How old are you anyway?”

Geralt needs a moment to think, “Two hundred and seven, I think.” He decides to leave out the detail that he didn’t truly know how old he was and it was Dandelion who chose his birthday.

Jaskier blinks rapidly, “Melitele’s tits, you’re old. And I thought I felt old at twenty.” He uncrosses his arms and sits back down next to Geralt. “Come on, we always do something for my birthday, why’d you think we wouldn’t for you?”

Geralt shrugs, resuming his whittling. For the past two years Jaskier has been with him for his birthday, it was near the end of summer when the nights were getting colder and soon Geralt would make his way to Kaer Morhen.

The day would involve copious amounts of food and sightseeing whatever city they were closest to. Followed by getting beyond drunk on the cheapest wines and ales they could find. At some point in the night, Jaskier would disappear and come back with ruffled hair and smelling of sex, but he would always come back. He would play a few jigs and at his twentieth birthday he had even convinced Geralt to join the dancing crowd, very briefly, and only because Jaskier held his hand as they did a loop of the circle of people. And then, they would get kicked out of the tavern for being too drunk, stumble their way back to camp and sleep under the stars with no fire.

“My birthday’s not important, I’ve had too many of them.”

Jaskier makes a hurt sound and clutches his heart, “Never! As if I’d let my best friend go without celebrating his birthday.”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt replies automatically. They’re not friends, friends is too close, friends means putting Jaskier’s life in danger. Companions, travelling companions was safe. And friend felt like much too little a word to encompass all that Jaskier truly meant to him.

Jaskier only stills for a split second, well used to such a reply by now but Geralt still notices the sting of hurt. “Yeah, yeah,” he plasters a smile back onto his face, “Well, it’s not your decision, chum. We’re celebrating your birthday whether you like it or not. And twice as much to make up for last year,” he waves a finger at him.

Geralt smirks and says nothing.

* * *

“Ah-ha,” Jaskier shouts, slamming down his ale. “Finished before you.”

They were each on their sixth ale, and Geralt doesn’t know when but Jaskier had decided it was a competition on who could drink faster. The only problem being Witcher tolerance meant Geralt was just getting tipsy when Jaskier was already drunk.

As promised, Jaskier had insisted on celebrating his birthday at the next town they arrived in. After Geralt had finished a small contract he then started taking them on a pub crawl of the ten taverns in the town.

They stand and Jaskier wobbles on his feet. Instinctively, Geralt reaches out his hands to steady him and grips Jaskier’s shoulder and side tightly. Jaskier pauses and Geralt knows he should take his hands away but doesn’t.

Jaskier steps a little closer and Geralt removes his hands quickly. “Where next?”

“The Belladonna Inn,” Jaskier announces, his eyes lingering on Geralt’s face for a moment longer before leading them to the next place.

After the last tavern Jaskier is well and truly drunk and needs to lean on Geralt to keep upright. Geralt has his arm around Jaskier to support him as they make their way to the inn. Jaskier’s head lolls onto his shoulder, “Have a good day?” he slurs while Geralt manoeuvres them up the stairs. His breath ghosts over his neck and he nearly misses their room.

“Yeah,” he whispers, opening their door and dumping Jaskier on the bed.

The bard sluggishly kicks off his boots and pulls the covers over his head, clothes and all. Geralt takes more time to take off his boots and outer clothes. He thinks Jaskier is asleep already when he suddenly lifts the covers and squints looking for him.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to bed,” Geralt rolls out his bedroll, there was only one bed after all.

Jaskier frowns and makes grabby hands towards him, “C’mere, birthday boy gets the bed.” He sits up but Geralt pushes his shoulder lightly back down.

“You’re drunker.”

He moves away but Jaskier has a firm grip on his shoulder. His eyes are shut but he whines and rolls over making space. “On the bed,” he mutters insistently, face half-buried in the pillow.

Geralt hesitates, they’ve never shared a bed before. They’d been given rooms with only one but they either took it in turns to sleep or one of them slept on the floor. Slowly he slides under the covers, leaving as much space as possible between them.

Jaskier makes a happy noise and rolls over to face him, drunkenly slinging his arms and leg over him. Geralt freezes at their closeness. He wants to reach out and hold him but refuses to let himself. He stays still until Jaskier falls asleep his soft snores sound in his ears.

He sighs deeply, his chest aching with so many memories of Julian and now Jaskier too. He doesn’t feel anything for him, he doesn’t, he just misses Julian. Jaskier can never be Julian and they can never be closer than what they are now. They can’t.

* * *

Geralt isn’t lonely. Not at all. And that definitely isn’t why he has spent the last three days with a whore he doesn’t remember the name of.

She is tracing her fingers over his scars and singing Jaskier’s song about the vampire he had slain last year. He clenches his jaw at the thought of the bard, he hasn’t seen him in nearly four months – their longest time apart yet. She finds her way down to the scar on his thigh, “I don’t recall the bard singing of this one.”

By now Jaskier had ringed out the story behind almost every scar on his body. Or rather a story with plenty of embellishment on his part. Even his old scars that were nearly faded, scars he had gotten during one of his past lives now had a song. His heart had stopped one evening when Jaskier was composing a song about the scar on his arm. He had gotten it way back when he was with Dandelion and he had turned it into a song about a knight and maiden. Jaskier had tried out several melodies, eventually settling on one that sounded eerily similar to Dandelion’s composition.

“Who would dare try and rob you of your treasure? A woman?”

“A princess,” he sighs. Renfri is still haunting him, along with the ghosts of everyone else he had brought to an untimely end.

“Were you in love? What’s her name?”

Geralt hadn’t been in love with Renfri, his heart belonged wholeheartedly to another. But he had loved her, in some way, she was his mirror image. A mutant turned into a monster by the world. Had he not killed her perhaps he could have loved her deeper. He thinks of Julian and it still hurts.

Julian was his, he didn’t want to share any of their precious memories with a stranger. “When you live as long as I do all the names start to sound the same,” he lies. He could never forget the names, they follow him everywhere.

His plans for the night abruptly change when he learns of another Witcher in Temeria and the innkeeper comes banging on the door. He hadn’t realised he was so close to Temeria, he hasn’t been back ever since he and Julian left for the final time.

It’s close enough to walk and he reaches the mines by sunrise. A sign by the entrance reads ‘Temeria: realm of monsters and cowardly kings’. Geralt snorts remembering Cedric and Griffin, the sign was right.

* * *

A striga, of all things, and a princess, too. Had it been anything else Geralt wouldn’t have taken the job; he’s clearly not welcome here. He thinks of Renfri, the princess he couldn’t save and thinks maybe he can save this one. He also thinks of Julian, and the fact that this striga is his great-great-grand-niece.

Foltest is nothing like Julian and everything like Cedric, except he doesn’t even look the part of a king. He denies being the striga’s father but Geralt doesn’t need his confirmation to know it’s the truth. He tricks the guards out of the room and turns on Foltest.

“I remember hearing stories about Witchers as a child. One of them stole away one of my ancestors. Is it true what they say? That the mutations that grant your abilities also erase your emotions?”

Geralt doesn’t deign to give a response, too struck by what Foltest has said. He never stole Julian away, Julian chose to leave. Although that had probably been neatly put away and replaced by a story that reflected well on the royal family.

“Must be,” Foltest continues, “Because only a man devoid of all heart would accuse a man of bedding his sister.”

Geralt leaves the castle but stays near the grounds. Even if Foltest won’t let him, he can’t give up on the striga.

The castle Foltest currently resides in isn’t the same as the one Julian had. That castle has been abandoned since the striga started attacking. He crouches by the walls watching the guards and remembers how much he had hated being here, he still does.

That’s where Triss finds him and he easily makes the guards flee. Inside the castle is too familiar. He still knows the hallways despite the dust and debris and wildlife that has taken it over.

On the way to Adda’s bedroom, they take a long hallway lined with portraits. Half of them are ripped or rotting. He stops in his tracks when he sees a portrait of Julian with his family. Barely more than a boy but still him, unhappy and glaring out at the hallway.

“What is it?” Triss asks, looking from Geralt to the painting.

“Nothing,” Geralt denies, eyes fixed. He is so used to Jaskier having short hair that he had almost forgotten what he looked like with it grown out. He remembers back when he first met Julian and he had hidden the sadness in his eyes that are clear in this portrait. The difference between them is striking.

“Did you know them?” Triss asks softly.

Geralt only hums and moves on.

* * *

Geralt hands Renfri’s broach to the king. He had carried it on his sword for over twenty years, a reminder to do the right thing. Saving the striga would the right thing, no matter how difficult.

“I envy you, Witcher, to live and never have to fall in love,” Foltest smiles ruefully.

His first thought is of Jaskier. Then Julian, and everyone else he had been. He doesn’t love Jaskier. He had done his time falling in love and it stopped with Julian. He doesn’t tell Foltest this.

* * *

_He can’t make sense of anything. His vision blurs and twists before his eyes. Renfri is above him whispering in his ear. Julian dances in his vision, too, although sometimes he looks like Jaskier. He reaches out for him but he disappears. “The boy in blue,” Renfri whispers over and over. “The boy in blue and the girl in the woods will be with you always.”_

He wakes suddenly and groans in pain. Triss is sat across from him watching. She assures him the princess will live and he asks for his coin.

“Who are Julian and Renfri?” Triss asks and he freezes. “You uttered their names over and over in your sleep.”

“My coin,” he demands.

“Is that all life is to you? Monsters and money.”

No, his life had been more to him. It had been love and home and safety. And that was ripped away from him. “It’s all it needs to be,” he tells her and tells himself to quell the part of him that longs for more again.

* * *

“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt snaps and Jaskier instantly silences.

His eyes are still black and his head hurts something awful. The hunt had been a lot quicker and easier than he had anticipated and the potions were coursing through his body as they sat at camp.

Without any monster to focus on, his body was pumping full of adrenaline and potions with no outlet. The bright light from the fire was burning his eyes and he could hear every little intonation in not only Jaskier’s voice but the birds and insects that surrounded them in the forest.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, wiping a hand over his face and massaging his temples.

Jaskier swallows and they sit in silence for a long while. It does nothing to alleviate his headache and he wishes he hadn’t snapped. The scent of hurt begins to wear off Jaskier and then he slowly rises.

He steps carefully across their camp, barely making a rustle in the grass and Geralt had no idea he could even be that quiet. Jaskier reaches their bags and pulls out a strip of cloth that was once his chemise that got snagged and ripped.

Jaskier pulls it apart even more until it’s one length of cloth and walks slowly and near silently over to him. He kneels in front of him, “Let me,” he whispers, only just audible.

He lifts the cloth up to Geralt’s face and he furrows his eyebrows moving away.

“Trust me,” Jaskier whispers, and puts the cloth over his eyes. Slowly and gently he wraps it around his head a few times and secures it with a knot at the back of his head. The light is almost blocked out but he can still see a flicker of the fire. That then disappears and he hears Jaskier kicking it out.

Jaskier then returns to him and puts his hands on his shoulders. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat. “This way,” Jaskier whispers and Geralt lets himself be led to his bedroll. He lies sideways, head pressed into a pillow to block out the noise on one side.

Then to his surprise, another pillow comes to rest on the other side of his head. It’s Jaskier’s pillow, they only have two. He wants to protest but the noises of the forest are muffled. Jaskier doesn’t leave, pressing the pillow down with a little weight and stays there.

Geralt doesn’t know how long it takes for the potion to wear off but his headache slowly dulls and he feels the tension in his muscles relax. Part of him want to reach out to touch Jaskier, but he knows he can only savour his touch through the barrier of the pillow.

It’s only to ground himself, he reasons, and nothing to do with Jaskier. If it were anyone else, he would want to touch them too, to make sense of his surroundings. It sounds weak to his own ears but he doesn’t dig deeper.

Eventually, the potion has truly worn off and Geralt lifts. Jaskier instantly removes his hand but remains quiet. Geralt removes the cloth around his eyes and blinks to adjust to the new darkness, only lit by the moonlight. He can only see because of his enhanced eyesight and he makes out Jaskier’s worried face.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Any time,” Jaskier responds, equally quiet.

* * *

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt admonishes roughly to hide the panic that’s washing over him. He shoves a vial towards Jaskier and he downs it quickly. It’s an anti-clotting agent and Geralt is glad he had the foresight to bring it.

Jaskier hisses and throws his head back in pain, “Fuck, just do it.”

Geralt rips open the trouser leg surrounding the stinger wedged deep in Jaskier’s thigh. Blood is already pouring from the wound and he hasn’t removed it yet. He can only pray that it hasn’t hit an artery.

He grips the edge of the tail still attached to the stinger and yanks. Jaskier cries out in pain and blood begins to pour quickly from his leg.

“Am I gonna die,” Jaskier asks, pale.

“No,” Geralt grits, shoving Jaskier’s doublet against the wound to stem the bleeding. “Hold this. Tightly.”

Jaskier does so and Geralt runs to fetch his medical kit from Roach who is ground tied a distance away. He runs as fast as he can, terrified that he’ll return to him dead. When he does get back, Jaskier has shuffled to lean back against a tree and looks ready to pass out.

Geralt drops to his knees and immediately tends to the wound. The wound is deep, too deep to only sew the top layer of skin. He curses under his breath. He’s no surgeon. He roots around for the special silk used for such deep wounds, thread made of natural materials that the body will absorb. It was expensive and rare but he’d be damned if he didn’t use it right now.

He begins to stitch the wound close, ignoring the fact that it’s Jaskier’s muscle he’s poking a needle into. Jaskier cries and curses in pain the whole time but somehow manages to keep his leg relatively still.

Geralt’s stitches are quick and sloppy but he doesn’t have time for perfection. He uses a regular thread for the top layer of skin, again his stitches are messy. Messier than Jaskier does on him. It’ll leave a scar but the bleeding stops.

Jaskier pants, his palm bleeding from where he’s dug his fingernails in. “Am I dead?” he breathes.

“No,” Geralt shakes his head, relief clear in his voice.

“Careful, almost sounds like you care about me,” Jaskier manages a smile, still pale and sweaty. He’s lost a lot of blood. The manticore venom hasn’t reached his heart yet by the looks of it but the poison is still in his bloodstream.

Geralt fetches Roach and finds his vial of Golden Oriole. It wasn’t exactly safe for humans but he had no choice, either way, Jaskier could die and this might give him a chance. He mixes the vial with water to hopefully lessen the otherwise deadly effects of the monster parts and hands it to Jaskier.

He doesn’t ask what it is, just drinks.

Geralt keeps a close eye on him for the rest of the night as he drifts in and out of sleep. The poison doesn’t take effect, nor do any reactions to the Golden Oriole. He’s still a sickly pale from the blood loss but when morning arises Geralt knows he’ll live.

* * *

One thing Geralt hadn’t accounted for is that if he was no longer Jaskier’s partner, that meant the bard would seek company elsewhere. His knuckles turn white around the handle of his ale as he watches Jaskier flirt with a girl across the tavern. He brushes a lock of hair behind her ear and leans in to whisper something that makes her giggle and blush.

He can easily imagine the sultry words he whispers, the way his voice will deepen with the promise of more to come. It had been whispered in his own ear countless times after all. Geralt downs the rest of the ale, forcing himself to look away from the pair.

It’s not the first time it’s happened. Jaskier easily finds people to bed no matter what town they find themselves in. He’s never had to watch him chase after others before and it hurts in a way he didn’t expect.

Age-old jealousy rises to the surface but he has no right. Jaskier isn’t his. Jaskier is just his travelling companion. Besides, it’s not like he wants to be the one sharing his bed.

Jaskier comes over and Geralt thinks he might have abandoned his pursuit before he grabs his doublet which had been left on his chair and shoots a quick, “Don’t wait up for me.” Then returns to the girl and lets himself be lead out of the tavern.

Geralt retreats to their room alone. He’s not bitter, he tells himself as he falls into a restless sleep.

* * *

“Yikes,” Jaskier trails his eyes over Geralt’s gut covered body and points at the bathtub waiting. “Don’t touch anything but that water.”

Geralt grunts and heats the water with ignii before stripping down. Jaskier averts his eyes as he steps in and then bounds over to his side. “What happened? Tell me everything. Do you know how hard it is to write songs when you don’t let me come anymore?”

“I never let you come.”

“Yes, well, now you don’t even pretend to not notice me following you.”

“You almost died.”

Jaskier shrugs, grabbing a bucket to collect water in and then dump it over his head, “But I didn’t.”

Geralt scrubs at his skin to get the gore off while Jaskier prattles on about his performance that evening and the decent amount of coin he procured. “You’ll never get it all out with your hair tied up, let me,” Jaskier says, before Geralt can stop him sits behind him and carefully works his hair free of the band.

He stills whilst Jaskier’s fingers card through his hair pulling out knots and monster bits. Geralt closes his eyes, pushing away memories of his past lives and pushing away the desire that curls in his gut. Jaskier hums softly as he works and it becomes increasingly harder for him to keep putting distance between them.

* * *

While Jaskier easily finds a lover for a night or two, Geralt cannot. Even if people weren’t afraid of him he can’t charm like Jaskier does. He’s spent years watching the bard chase lover after lover, come back to their room smelling of them and what they’ve done or even worse not come back at all.

He’s just pent up. It has nothing to do with it being _Jaskier_ and just to do with the fact that Geralt’s bed has been lonely. He rarely has enough coin to splash out on a brothel but they’ve been earning a lot lately.

Geralt will never admit it but Jaskier’s Toss A Coin was a catchy hit, and it had taken a few years but now the song has reached a town before they have and they are happy to have his services. He has more coin than ever.

Now instead of watching Jaskier disappear for a few hours with a new beauty, he can disappear himself. Any brothel they cross he’ll visit. They’re all pleasant enough but the bodies beneath his own never fill the longing in his heart. It’s physical, and that’s not what he really wants.

* * *

Jaskier is singing softly and Geralt pokes at the fire to keep it burning. For once, he isn’t singing about his feats of killing monsters. It’s a simple melody, one full of yearning and love. If he were to close his eyes, he could almost think it was a hundred years ago. Gods, had it really been that long since Julian was young enough to travel on the roads?

His heart swells with want and he can’t place if it’s for his long lost love or if it’s for the man across the campfire.

_I rode thirty minutes_

_Just to ride back thirty minutes_

_I guess it’s just an hour of my life_

_Wishing you were in it_

_While the Sphere is busy spinning_

_Even for a second of your time_

_My last night in Posada_

_I spent just dying to see ya’_

_Maybe it’s all worth it_

_Even if it isn’t perfect_

_Nothing really ever goes to plan_

_I just need a person_

_Who will hear just how I’m hurting_

_When something not so pleasant_

_Hits the fan_

“Are you hurting?” Geralt interrupts, not sure where the words came from.

Jaskier stops playing mid-chord and looks at Geralt with surprise, which then morphs into a sad look. “Aren’t we all?” After a moment he keeps playing the song, but only hums the melody instead of singing the lyrics.

Geralt picks up a block of wood and his whittling knife, Jaskier’s sad face stuck in his head. He doesn’t dare look up again to see if it’s still there. He doesn’t want to think about it at all, in fact. He wants to know what had caused it, but he shouldn’t care. He concentrates on the wood but it doesn’t get rid of his thoughts.

* * *

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Geralt says, crossing the street to the brothel.

“What? Where are you-,” Jaskier follows him and then spots where he’s going and falters, “Oh.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “What?”

Jaskier shakes his head and raises his hands, “Nothing, nothing. Uh, enjoy your, um, merrymaking.” He quickly turns on his heels and walks away, head down. Jaskier was probably jealous, he’d spent the last of his coin in the last town. Although he hardly needed a brothel for such services.

He watches Jaskier go until he disappears out of sight and tries his best to forget about him when he heads inside.

* * *

Geralt holds his breath as Jaskier carefully applies chamomile paste to the friction burns on his skin. The friction burns that span his lower back all the way down to his upper thighs. The griffin had managed to throw him hard, sending him skidding down a cobbled path so fast it had still burnt his skin beneath his clothes.

He had struggled to apply the soothing and healing paste himself for several minutes. The divider in the room was the only thing shielding the embarrassing attempt to do so.

Jaskier had asked if he needed help and Geralt adamantly denied it until he realised he couldn’t do it himself. Not with one arm currently in a sling from where it had been twisted.

After he gave in Jaskier had asked him to lay on the bed. Geralt shoved his face into the pillows to hide his mortification at lying naked. Jaskier had seen him naked before when they bathed but never anything like this.

His hands are soft and gentle as they work the salve over his skin. Geralt’s skin raises in goosebumps and he hopes Jaskier doesn’t notice. He can’t tell if Jaskier’s fingers linger for longer than they should but a small part of him hopes they do.

Jaskier is silent while he applies it. Geralt doesn’t dare make a noise and disrupt whatever tension is barely hanging in the balance. It feels like an eternity under Jaskier’s skilful hands and also barely seconds.

Then he’s finished and walking away and chatting like normal. Geralt stays lying on his stomach, but Jaskier tosses a thin blanket over him to cover him. They go on as normal and Geralt wishes his stomach would stop feeling like it’s doing somersaults.

* * *

The door bangs open loudly as he enters the tavern and people back away from him in disgust. All he wants right now is a bath. He walks to the centre and finds Jaskier sat there, laughing with delight at the sight of him.

His muscles relax at the sight of him. The proof that the hunt is over and he’s finally home. No, not home, Jaskier isn’t home. Just proof that the hunt is over.

The crowd erupts into song and Jaskier follows him to the bar where he immediately starts talking about repaying his debt. Geralt takes a sip of the beer that tastes like literal piss and spits it out, the bartender looks sheepish at the appalled look he shoots his way.

Jaskier waxes poetic about some party and Geralt would rather go and get swallowed by that selkiemore again. “Food, women, and wine, Geralt!”

He stops, not because he’s enticed by the offers but because of the true pleading he hears in Jaskier’s voice. Geralt is used to Jaskier’s stream of asking for things, whether it be stopping for a break on the road or spending a night getting drunk. He knows how to distinguish between when he’s just whining because he’s bored and when he really wants something. And this is the latter.

Despite years of denying even being his friend, Geralt knows he would do anything Jaskier truly asked of him.

* * *

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest,” Jaskier circles the bathtub and Geralt scrubs at his hair wishing the other man would do it for him. “It’s one night of bodyguarding for your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt denies, although it’s true that Jaskier is his best friend. His only friend, really, and so much more.

“Oh? Oh, really? Oh, you usually let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” Jaskier challenges and Geralt glares not wanting to be reminded of that.

Jaskier keeps talking, never bothered by Geralt’s glares or denials. It’s easier to deny any affection for the man than to admit how he really feels about him.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?”

“Hard to say, one tends to stop keeping count after a while,” Jaskier says flippantly and Geralt feels that jealousy rise again. Jaskier had cuckolded countless husbands, and a few wives, and he’s lost track of how many of them were noble. It’s not his place to be jealous, he reminds himself, Jaskier is nothing to him, after all.

“Actually, I’ve always wondered. Do Witchers ever retire?”

Geralt is thrown back to that little cottage by the coast. Julian growing old and not having to find contracts to survive. A happy, peaceful life that he never should have been granted. If he ever got old it’s how he would want to spend his final years, although it would be awfully lonely by himself. It was a good thing that would never happen again.

“Yeah, when they slow and get killed.”

“Come on, you must want something for yourself when all this monster hunting nonsense is over with.”

“I want nothing,” Geralt replies. A Witcher wants nothing. A Witcher wants nothing.

“Well, who knows,” Jaskier says cheerfully, “Maybe someone out there will want you.” He lowers to lean against the bathtub with a pout and a pointed look that Geralt can’t look away from.

“I need no one.” Dandelion had been right all those years ago with his dying words. He needed no one, he could survive on his own. “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.” The last time anyone depended on him he got them killed.

“And yet, here we are.”

Jaskier holds his gaze and Geralt could lose himself in his eyes. He wants to reach out, thread his fingers through his hair and pull him closer. He doesn’t.

* * *

“Geralt of Rivia!” A voice calls across the hall. A familiar voice.

Mousesack is suddenly walking towards him and Geralt swallows uneasily. This isn’t exactly the way he wants Jaskier to find out about his past lives. How many people were they doomed to meet that could spill Geralt’s biggest life long secret?

“I haven’t seen you since the last plague,” Mousesack smiles widely. His eyes dart to Jaskier behind him and Geralt notices the shock on his face. He looks back at Geralt and before he can say anything Geralt gives a quick small shake of his head. Mousesack hesitates and then continues on smiling as if he hadn’t seen a dead man.

“Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?”

They both look over to Jaskier who looks sheepish at their attention and smiles awkwardly.

“This is Jaskier. He’s performing tonight. He insisted I not dress in my armour,” Geralt explains.

Mousesack nods slowly and then puts his hand on Geralt’s shoulder to lead him away and out of earshot. Geralt knows he won’t get away without an explanation. The men Mousesack was with before call him back over and he promises he will return. He leads Geralt to a quieter place near the side of the banquet hall.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt sighs and looks away. He sees Jaskier setting up with the band across the room. “I don’t know.”

“I was there when we buried Buttercup, my friend. Now he’s performing for the Queen. What? Did you get some mage to revive him? A djinn wish?”

“No. It’s not him.”

Mousesack raises an eyebrow, “I may be old but my memory is clear as day. He may look different but I know a man I’ve met before.”

“Hmm.”

“Geralt,” Mousesack’s voice is tense, “If this is dark magic-“

“It’s not,” Geralt runs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what it is. This is the fourth _him_ I’ve met. Buttercup was second.”

Mousesack is silent. He turns to watch Jaskier. He’s talking to the other band members and handing out music sheets.

“Does he remember?”

“No. Not from what I can tell.”

Mousesack hums and watches Jaskier intently. “Interesting.”

Geralt does not reply and keeps watching Jaskier. He’s talking to a court maiden now. Geralt ignores the way his heart clenches at the sight. He chose not to pursue anything – he has no claim over Jaskier, no right to feel jealous, no reason to feel so bitter. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t slept with other people since meeting Jaskier and in the time between him. And this certainly isn't the first person to have caught Jaskier’s fancies.

That didn’t stop the instinct in his heart to reach out to him. To feel him against him again. God, it had been so _long_. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Jaskier is painfully mortal. He deserves a life without Geralt dooming him to death and destruction – not that he is doing a good job of that so far.

Jaskier seems incessant on following him from contract to contract. Geralt’s gruff attitude and disregard for him doesn’t put him off. Geralt is waiting for the day when he finally comes to his senses and finds a new muse – waiting with hope or dread he doesn’t know.

“Destiny has sought to tie the two of you together,” Mousesack voices.

Geralt snorts, “Destiny is bullshit, there’s no such thing.”

“Then how do you explain him?”

Geralt swallows, “Coincidence. A trick and I haven’t figured out who’s playing it yet.”

They talk briefly about who will be granted Pavetta’s hand in marriage when Geralt spots Jaskier being cornered by a lord. He makes his way over to them and hears the short man demand the bard drop his trousers.

Geralt stifles a laugh and approaches the pair with a solemn face. “Forgive me, my lord. This happens all the time. It’s true he has the face of a cad and a coward,” the lord nods and Geralt can hardly contain his grin as Jaskier’s face drops. “But truth be known, he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”

Jaskier’s mouth drops open, “Well that’s… true.”

The lord leaves with hurried apologies and Geralt snickers as Jaskier rounds on him for ruining his reputation. He can’t keep the smile off his face though, if he was going to be forced to spend time in court, he’d be damned if he didn’t mess with them. And that includes Jaskier.

“I saved your life, you’re on your own from here on out.”

Jaskier can’t hold his offended stance for much longer and rolls his eyes with a grin and drops his head down to hide it. It’d be so easy to reach out for him. Before they can do anything else fanfare announces the entrance of the Queen and Jaskier races to join the other bards.

Geralt grabs an ale and finds a quiet spot to wait out the rest of the evening undisturbed. Jaskier leads the band in a jig and he can’t help but watch him as the evening passes by. Of course, that includes watching him flirt with people during his breaks which he likes watching less and still can’t help but watch.

The evening quickly turns to shit when the Queen asks him to sit by her side and then a cursed knight shows up. Pavetta’s sheer power nearly ruins the hall and very nearly kills them all. Even considering all that, what truly ruins Geralt’s night is seeing Jaskier holding the hand of a lady in the aftermath of it all.

What really, truly, totally ruins his night is his idea of a joke claiming the Law of Surprise ends up with him gaining a child.

* * *

It takes him a month to run into Jaskier again after Cintra.

“Geralt! Did you leave the entirety of Cintra in one night?” Jaskier asks by way of a greeting when they reach a crossroads at the same time. “I looked for you, no one saw you after the banquet.”

“Yes.”

Jaskier jogs a little to catch up with Roach’s pace, “Are you going back? To Cintra?”

“No.”

“Never?” Jaskier looks appalled, “But what about the child?”

Geralt slows down Roach, “It’s not mine. Leave it with its parents.”

“But Geralt, you bound it to you. You saw what happened with Duny-”

“It’s not my problem,” he urged Roach faster and Jaskier runs to catch up again.

“Alright, alright, hold up. I’ll shut up about it.”

Geralt slows her again and this time Jaskier falls in beside him and the storm that has been brewing inside him since he left Cintra lessens slightly.

* * *

They travel for a few months and then Geralt brings Jaskier to Oxenfurt. No matter how far away they were or how inconvenient it is to his own route to Kaer Morhen, he always makes sure the bard makes it safely to the university every year.

“Care to stay?” Jaskier asks as they reach the borders of the city. “It’s very hospitable. I can arrange some rooms for you.”

Geralt wishes he could take him up on that offer but quickly quells the instinct. “No, I need to go to Kaer Morhen.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Jaskier scratches the back of his neck and looks around aimlessly.

Every year the bard invites him to stay and every year he declines. He wonders what would happen if he ever accepted but he knows he can’t, knows he shouldn’t. To spend winter with Jaskier would mean they were more than just travel companions.

“I should go. You alright from here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier flashes a bright smile that doesn’t match the low scent of hurt coming from him. He unloads his belongings from Roach’s saddlebags and swings them over his shoulder. “See you around, Geralt.”

* * *

When he meets Jaskier again in the spring his stomach jolts at the sight of him. He’s laying in the grass by the side of the road playing his lute for nobody but himself. The bright blue doublet and trousers he wears stand out against the greens and browns of the world around him and yet he looks so in place.

Geralt could almost mistake him for a fae trying to trick him were it not for the way his eyes light up and he calls out his name in delight when he sees him riding down the path.

“Waiting for me?” he smirks.

“Of course,” Jaskier laughs. “I was on my way to town when I felt the need to rest. What are the chances you should arrive just as I do? I’d say it were destiny herself.”

Geralt shoots him a glare and Jaskier grins innocently at him. Cintra and anything related is an off-limits topic but even he can’t prevent a bard and a poet from spouting nonsense about destiny.

After spending several months cooped up with only his brothers for company, he’s glad of having Jaskier around. By the end of the night, Jaskier has regaled the little village with tall tales of Witchers and the contract on offer goes up in price.

When he returns after the hunt, Jaskier is waiting up for him like usual to help him out of armour and pester him about what happened. The more years pass the more Geralt finds himself willing to talk about his hunts.

He doesn’t know how it happens but Jaskier manages to get him speaking without him realising. It’s fine, monsters are safe territory. The more Jaskier learns the less likely he’ll die from one. And if he spends a whole night telling Jaskier story after story about hunts, it’s for educational purposes and not to hear his laugh whatsoever.

* * *

A loud drunk has been heckling Jaskier for his entire performance. Jaskier has ignored it, for the most part, occasionally sending a snappy retort back that was lost on the man. As the man grows drunker his abuse becomes more frequent and the innkeeper seems unbothered.

Geralt keeps a close eye on him. He can tell Jaskier is uncomfortable, he’s more jittery than usual and his usual broad smile is gone. Geralt had tried sending Jaskier looks to tell him to just come sit down, they didn’t need the coin that badly, but Jaskier either didn’t understand or was purposefully ignoring him.

“Fucking bards,” the drunkard stands on wobbly legs and stalks towards Jaskier.

Jaskier abruptly stops playing and walks backwards until he hits the bar and can’t get any further.

“Get a real job and work like the rest of us,” the man grumbles getting closer to Jaskier and crowding his space.

“Good sir, while our professions may differ, surely, we both partake in honest work,” Jaskier smiles tightly, unable to move away from the man.

The drunk grabs the front of Jaskier’s doublet roughly and slams him hard into the bar. Geralt stands, his chair scraping against the floor getting the attention of everyone but the drunk. He waits to see if Jaskier will do anything; he’s seen him handle himself in plenty of bar fights before but he isn’t resisting at all here.

“A bards just the same as a whore,” the man spits, “Flitting about for a pretty penny.”

“Leave him alone,” Geralt calls out, crossing the distance between his table and the two of them.

The man turns his head to look at him, still holding Jaskier by his clothes. “Fucking Witcher,” he scoffs, “This bard your whore?”

Geralt clenches his fist, “I said, let him go.”

The drunk chuckles and slowly lets Jaskier go, stepping back just enough to allow Jaskier to move away from the bar digging into his back but not enough to leave. Then he brings his fist back to punch Jaskier in the face.

Jaskier goes to the floor and Geralt doesn’t hold back any longer. He decks the man as hard as he can and he sees a bloodied tooth fly to the floor. The rest of the folk stand at the violence, even if they didn’t condone the actions of the drunk it was always humans against Witchers. Some of his buddies come at him and Geralt easily sends them to the ground. It takes a lot of restraint to not seriously injure them.

When there’s a break in the fight he hoists Jaskier up and checks him over, apart from a bruise forming over his cheekbone he appears fine.

A few men get to their feet and Jaskier grabs his hand, pulling him up the stairs and to their room before anyone can make another move. Back in their own space, Geralt realises his knuckles are bleeding and one feels cracked. He had punched the drunk harder than the rest.

Jaskier is pacing their room, the smell of stress thick on him.

“Are you okay?”

Jaskier nods shakily, “I’m fine.”

Geralt fishes out his bandages, “Why didn’t you fight? You’ve been in brawls before.”

Jaskier shrugs, “That was different.”

“How?” Geralt furrows his brows and tries to wrap the bandage around his injured hand but Jaskier takes it from him. He gestures for him to sit on the bed and he kneels on the floor in front of him. “I can wrap it myself.”

“I know you can, but you don’t have to,” Jaskier insists, not letting Geralt take the bandage from him and wrapping it nearly over his knuckles. “It’s different because when I get into fights it’s not over my own honour.”

“Then what?”

“Yours,” Jaskier flicks his eyes up to meet his.

“Oh,” he whispers.

Jaskier licks his lips slowly, “You didn’t have to do that you know.”

“I wasn’t going to let him continue.”

Jaskier’s face flushes and he ducks his head down to concentrate on his work. “The innkeeper will probably kick us out.”

“Hmm, probably.”

Geralt can’t take his eyes off Jaskier’s face, his tongue is sticking out as he concentrates on wrapping. His other hand is sweaty and his chest feels tight. Jaskier looks up at him from where he’s knelt on the floor with his big blue eyes and butterflies swarm in his stomach.

“All done,” Jaskier smiles.

“Thank you,” his voice is hoarser than usual and he hopes Jaskier doesn’t notice.

“Any time.”

Jaskier is still holding his hand in his, gentle and delicate. Geralt’s fingers itch to slide between Jaskier’s and pull him closer, but he resists.

He nods and Jaskier moves up from the floor to sit next to him on the bed. Somehow, he still hasn’t let go of his hand. They’ve been this close before, closer even. Geralt’s throat is dry and he scarlessly moves lest he break the moment.

The tips of Jaskier’s fingers lightly intertwine with his own. Barely there touches, not quite holding hands, still loose enough to pull away and pretend it was innocent. A small gasp escapes Geralt’s mouth at the feather-light touch of their fingertips. He thinks he can hear Jaskier’s heart beating fast but it might be his own.

Any restraint or plans to hold back seem to fly out the window. He can’t conjure up the reasons why he had decided this could be a bad thing. Jaskier’s face is so close to his, he can see every detail in his irises and his eyes flick down to track the movement of him darting his tongue out to wet his lips.

A loud banging on the door cuts through the air. They jump apart and Geralt mourns the loss of Jaskier in his space. The reasons come back, it’s for the best, he thinks, that was a stupid thing to let happen.

Jaskier answers the door. It’s the innkeeper and they’re being asked to leave.

“Told you,” Jaskier says when the innkeeper leaves and they hastily start to pack up. His voice is tight and he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

They make camp out of town, their bedrolls set further apart than usual. Geralt doesn’t sleep. His mind circles around the image of Jaskier being so close. He hopes that it won’t drive him away, he’ll apologise in the morning for being so forward. It shouldn’t have happened, Jaskier didn’t deserve that. He deserves so much better than him.

* * *

“You’re,” Lambert narrows his eyes, “Perky.”

“What?” Geralt scoffs and sips his ale.

“Yeah, perky, happy, practically glowing,” Lambert insists and hits Eskel next to him to get his attention. “Look at him.”

Eskel sizes Geralt up and nods, “Blushing like a little girl.”

“I’m not even blushing at anything.”

“What do you reckon has our dear brother in such a good mood?” Lambert ponders.

Eskel strokes his chin as he pretends to think, “I have no clue what could cause this stick in the mud to be happy.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “I’m not happy. I’m just drinking my ale.”

“I think he must have had a _very_ good summer,” Lambert grins. “Pray tell, Geralt, how was your summer?”

Now Geralt is blushing, the heat rises to his cheeks and he takes a deep drink of his ale. The summer had been exceptionally good. Lots of contracts, easy ones and people willing to pay a good price for them. That wasn’t what had his spirits high, of course.

“Just lots of good contracts,” he shrugs.

Lambert and Eskel still have wide predatory grins. “Interesting,” Eskel draws out, “Last time I remember you being like this was when you told us about the lovely Julian.”

The mood dampens slightly at the reminder of their long lost friend. Geralt had never told either of them that Julian, or Jaskier rather, had come back. Seemingly would always come back. They still thought he was dead, well, he is - Jaskier isn’t Julian anymore.

“I think you’re right,” Lambert says slyly and the liveliness returns, “Has the White Wolf found a new lover?”

Eskel nods, “I believe he has. Come one, tell us, who is it?”

Geralt remains silent and sips his ale.

“Is it your bard? What’s his name? Jaskier?”

“His name is Jaskier, and no, he’s not my new lover,” Geralt replies evenly. Gods, he wished Jaskier was his again.

“You did always have a thing for bards,” Lambert insists.

“Shut up, Lambert,” Geralt replies dryly.

They’re right, though. When he first met Jaskier he had been consumed by his grief and loss. Now, after several years, they’ve settled into something anyone else would call friendship. Geralt still can’t bring himself to use that word.

Since Jaskier came into his life everything became easier. He’s more often greeted by the name White Wolf than Butcher and is given better money and rooms. Even Eskel and Lambert have found the Path easier since Jaskier’s hit song took off. It’s not just that, he knows. The loneliness he had convinced himself was what he needed is now barely there, only surfacing during the brief breaks from travelling together.

Even if Jaskier is no longer _his_ he still makes the Path a matter of more than just surviving and actually looking forward to the future. Even if the future is just hearing whatever song Jaskier has been humming all day finally sung aloud.

* * *

There’s only one bed left. Why wouldn’t there be. It’s small, too, barely bigger than a single. They agreed to share as they had both been sleeping outside for over a month but with both of them crowded on the bed back to back, Geralt isn’t sure this is comfier than one of them sleeping on the floor.

Jaskier’s heat seeps into his back and he tries his best to relax. The other man falls asleep before he does and he listens to his deep breathing until it lulls him to sleep.

When he wakes up his arm is slung over a warm body and his face is pressed into the back of their neck. He nuzzles into the heat and then realises who exactly this body is. Jaskier.

Jaskier is still breathing deeply in sleep which is a relief. As carefully as he can Geralt extracts himself and slips out of bed. He mourns the loss of warmth but dare not linger, if Jaskier knew that he had held him in the night he would look at him in disgust.

He leaves as fast and as quietly as possible. He finds Roach in the stable and spends an hour brushing her down even if he had already brushed her last night.

“What am I supposed to do, Roach?” he sighs. Roach buts her head into her chest and he frowns. “I can’t tell him. He’d leave.”

He can’t lie to Roach about his feelings. He can lie to himself better than he can to her because she instantly calls him out on it. And while he may be willing to admit he might have some feelings for Jaskier, he is still resolute on his decision to never act on them.

Roach snorts and he frowns. “Don’t judge me.”

He waits as long as possible before going back to the inn and ordering breakfast for them. Jaskier is awake by the time he returns, he doesn’t say anything about last night and Geralt hopes he doesn’t know.

At breakfast, Jaskier fills the morning with chatter like usual. Geralt drowns out the rest of the inn to focus on Jaskier’s voice and relaxes. Until Jaskier suddenly stops talking.

“I have to go,” he announces.

“Okay?”

Jaskier stands, “I doubt I’ll see you before winter sets in. I’ll find you in spring, yeah?”

Dread fills his stomach. Jaskier must have known he held him in the night. Of course he’d run away the first chance he got. “What? Where are you going? What’s wrong?” he asks helpless, begging for Jaskier to tell him it’s something else.

“I have to go,” Jaskier repeats racing out of the inn.

Geralt is too dumbfounded to chase after him and slowly eats the rest of his breakfast, not particularly hungry anymore. A while later he hears shouts coming from the stables and someone says a horse has been stolen.

He rushes to see if Roach is still there and breathes a sigh when she is. Then he realises that Jaskier must have stolen it in his haste to get away from him. Geralt digs his nails into his palm and shoots Roach an ‘I told you so’ look to which she only huffs.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t see Jaskier until next spring. The guilt and the worry eats away at him during their time apart. Then when Jaskier finds him he acts as if nothing is wrong.

Something has changed, though. He looks sadder, more weighed down than usual. His usual lingering looks are now filled with something new. Geralt nearly apologises for overstepping boundaries several times but the words always die in his throat. There’s no way to apologise without bringing up what happened and they’d both rather forget.

The most noticeable thing is Jaskier is now plagued by nightmares. The bard had gotten them occasionally before which was expected from everything he had seen by his side. Now they happened almost once a week.

Geralt hasn’t mentioned them yet. Usually, he pretends to be asleep as if the camp doesn’t reek of fear. Tonight, Jaskier had fallen asleep earlier than usual and Geralt still sits by the fire.

Within less than an hour, the bard is twisting and turning at his dreams. Geralt wants to reach out and wake him but he knows his touch is not welcome. Jaskier wakes by himself with a start, his eyes finding Geralt’s.

There’s panic in his eyes and rolling off him in waves.

“You okay?” he grunts out, not wanting to give Jaskier any more reason to leave.

Jaskier nods silently, drawing his knees up to his chest and watching the flames. “Just strange dreams.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he offers awkwardly and Jaskier gives a small surprised smile.

“I don’t know where to start. It’s nightmares. I’ve always had them, just more so lately. They’re not always scary, y’know. Something just feels,” he waves his hand about in a gesture that shows he can’t find the right word, “Off,” he settles on.

“What happens?”

Jaskier sighs, “I don’t really know. You’re in them sometimes. Or people I know. Or strangers.”

Geralt stills, wondering what he does to Jaskier in his dreams. Perhaps Jaskier was afraid of him and had hid it well. “What do I do in them?” he dares to ask.

Jaskier is quiet and Geralt think he hasn’t heard him but then he says in a low voice, “Nothing. I mean not nothing. Just, we’ll be at camp in the dream and it’ll feel wrong. I don’t know.”

Geralt tries not to let it show how much his mood has soured at Jaskier thinking being at camp with him felt ‘wrong’. That’s what they were doing right now. He wouldn’t be surprised if the next town they reach Jaskier comes up with an excuse to leave.

“Let’s not dwell on it,” Jaskier dismisses, perking up and grabbing his lute. Geralt can see he’s still unsettled though.

* * *

“My muse and beauty of this world, Geralt, I wish you could see her,” Jaskier is three ales deep and won’t shut up about his goddamn Countess. Geralt wishes he was drunker so that he could drown it out.

“To look upon her is to look upon the sun,” Jaskier waxes poetic. “A single smile would brighten the land and her laugh sounds like the singing of angels.”

“Hmm.”

“Geralt, I know you don’t like emotions but I’m serious. I was born so that I might gently caress her cheek at the dawn.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his drink. He stands up without another word and heads to the bar to order something stronger. His problem isn’t he doesn’t like hearing Jaskier talking about his emotions, the bard never shuts up about them. His problem is that all he’s heard for the past week is about the Countess de Stael.

The villages here had lots of contracts to offer so they’d been afforded the opportunity to stay much longer than they usually did. Within a day of their arrival, Jaskier had been invited to play at the Countess’ manor, and after that Jaskier had spent most of his time there.

They had paid for a room for two, even had the luxury of two single beds, and Jaskier hadn’t even slept in it after the first night. It was more expensive than a double bedroom and Geralt could have got his own double bed had he known. But it is too late now.

He tries to convince himself it was the cost of the rooms that he was angry about.

The barkeep pours him a glass of something strong. Not nearly as strong as the alcohol Witchers keep at Kaer Morhen to get properly drunk but better than ale. He swallows the whole glass in one and gets another. After three glasses of the strong liquor, he feels slightly better prepared to face Jaskier so orders another ale and returns.

“You were gone a long time,” Jaskier narrows his eyes.

“Are you playing tonight?” Geralt asks as if he hadn’t heard him.

“Yes, not here of course. I’m playing in the Countess’ manor once more. I wish you’d come, she has lots of lovely handmaidens who would make even you blush if they fluttered their eyelashes at you.”

“I doubt that.”

Jaskier grins, “Well their beauty is no match to the Countess’ anyway. She’d be the only one to make you turn your head, but I must say, my friend, that she is mine alone.”

“I’m not your friend,” he responds on instinct. It’s what he always says. It’s what’s best.

“Sure,” Jaskier shakes his head fondly.

When Jaskier finally leaves Geralt stumbles up to his room. No contracts tonight to distract him. The only thing he can picture is Jaskier and this faceless beauty. He doesn’t get any sleep that night.

Jaskier is still gone in the morning and Geralt realises that sooner or later it will always be like this. He can’t travel by his side forever and it’ll either be age that stops him or finding a new muse to dedicate his life to. It’s what he had wanted since the start. What he had wanted since Posada to ensure his safety.

Fifteen years had turned him into a selfish man again and he didn’t want to give Jaskier up anymore. But Jaskier wasn’t his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is 30 minutes - Adam Melchor!
> 
> this ended up slightly more fluffy than I was going for but we've had a lot of angst heavy chapters so hope you liked it! <3


	14. let people go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am once again asking you to read a 14k long chapter, its so long ao3 threatens to crash whilst i edit!
> 
> hope you enjoy it! <3

Jaskier is five years old when he realises that his parents don’t love him. Or they do, but they love what he is – a son and an heir – not who he is. They provide him with the finest tutors. The finest clothes. The finest servants. The finest food. But beyond that, they don’t care for him.

He knows because he sneaks out. When his lessons are done for the day he is meant to go to his room and wait until supper. Instead, he’ll run down to the kitchens and out the back door. There’s a windy dirt track to town that the servants take each morning and night to come to work. He runs and kicks up dust behind him.

When he reaches the village there’s a group of other children kicking around a leather ball. It’s fairly easy to join their game and soon he’s forgetting about getting home before sundown.

It’s dusk – a fact he only realises because the mothers come to collect their children. He watches as they hug their sons and daughters. How the other kids run to see them. How the mothers mess up their hair affectionately.

His mother and father have never done anything like that with him. That’s when he realises that he isn’t like the other children. He isn’t as good as them. He doesn’t deserve his parents love.

Jaskier is left behind in the courtyard. He makes his way back to his house with mud and grass stains on his clothes. He is late for dinner. His mother smacks the back of his head and sends him to bed without eating.

* * *

_He’s running barefoot along a river, laughing in delight with a flower in his hand. He runs out to the main street and stops in front of a man dressed in all black. His mother shouts for him and he turns around._

_The town is gone, he’s standing in a field. There are boys he doesn’t recognise at his side but they fade away until it’s just him and a girl. She’s sat in a wooden chair with wheels fitted to the side and has bright orange eyes. She raises an arm in his direction and begins to say something._

_Jaskier can’t hear her. Someone puts their hand on his shoulder and turns him around. It’s his father, although this man looks nothing like his actual father. “What are you doing out of lessons?” the man asks, pulling him down a hallway. “Leave your brother alone.”_

_He frowns in confusion, his brother is only a year old and Jaskier never bothers with him anyway. The man shoves him through a door. On the other side is a forest. A girl with brown hair and deep brown his eyes grabs his hand, “Let’s go,” she laughs and pulls him running through the forest._

_“Ren!” he laughs, he doesn’t know how he knows her name._

He wakes with a start, blinking away the sleep and looking around the darkness of his bedroom. He slips out of bed and silently walks downstairs. His parents are still awake in the lounge.

His mother spots him first, “Jaskier, what are you doing out of bed?”

“Had a bad dream,” he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He doesn’t know what made it a bad dream, there weren’t any monsters or scary people but he feels like he does after a nightmare. In fact, he can’t remember much about the dream now that he thinks about it.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she sighs but lifts him into her arms. “How about a drink?” She brings him to the kitchen, then passes him off to a kitchen maid. The maid makes him some warm milk and ruffles his hair lovingly before sending him back to bed.

* * *

He’s nearly fourteen when he gets kicked out of home. Or, sent away. Because nobles can’t be seen to kick their children out as it would ruin their reputation.

Ivan is their stable boy. He’s a little older than Jaskier but not by much. Since he’s been hired Jaskier has been bothering him every day for his company. Jaskier has four brothers and seven sisters. All of them are either much too young for him to spend time with or are way too stuck up to like him.

Jaskier is the oldest and his parents greatest regret. They’ve never been able to keep him in line. Instead of learning how to play the piano he learnt the lute. Instead of learning classic ballads he snuck out to the local taverns and learnt the bawdy songs they played. Zander is ten years old and much more refined; he’s the second oldest son and next in line after him. Jaskier knows that his parents would much rather have Zander be in his place.

Ivan doesn’t care about all that. Jaskier sings to him as he brushes down the horses and Ivan taps his foot in time. Jaskier will tell him tales of how they should run away together and fight dragons and Ivan will laugh and tell him that their places are here in Lettenhove. Jaskier will take Ivan’s flat cap and put it on himself and Ivan will tell him it suits him better.

Jaskier loves Ivan.

Ivan is not the first person he has loved. He gives his love freely and often (it is never deep love, that he knows, he doesn’t know if he can love deeply with how fleeting his heart is.) He loved Vera, the milk maid’s daughter, when he was seven. He loved Karl, the butcher's apprentice, when he was ten. He loved Milena, the young cook, when he was twelve. And he has loved several dozen people in between.

Ivan he loves just a little more than them. He sees Ivan almost every day. He knows more about Ivan than just what he looks like and a bit of small talk. Ivan makes his heart speed up and his face break into a smile uncontrollably.

After two months of flirting and dancing around each other it happens. He doesn’t exactly know how. He had stolen the brush for the horse and was refusing to give in back. Ivan has him pressed against the stable wall and then they’re kissing.

And his father sees them.

Jaskier doesn’t see Ivan again. He is forbidden from leaving his room for a week. He gets sent to Oxenfurt. He doesn’t know what happens to Ivan.

* * *

Oxenfurt isn’t all that bad. He changes out of whatever stuffy boring class his father enrolled him in and switches to the seven liberal arts. His lecturers are astounded by how easily he picks up Elder. He gets to practice his lute as often as he can. Every week in the local inns the students go and perform. Ironically, Oxenfurt is the happiest he’s ever been. He laughs at the thought of his father finding out he enjoys it here.

Jaskier falls in love every week. A pretty barmaid with a laugh that sounds like bells. Another student performing and strumming the strings of their instrument with such delicate care. A young lecturer who has a wry smile. But his heart knows it’s missing something.

His heart yearns. Jaskier can’t shake the feeling that there is something, someone, that should be by his side.

He chases lover after lover and they subside the feeling for a night or two. But it’s never enough. Sometimes he catches himself turning to face a person who is not there, was never there.

Jaskier’s favourite songs are love ballads. Songs that tell of a love so deep and so true it could raise people from the dead. That’s the kind of love he wants. And it’s the kind of love no one wants to give him.

Then he meets Valdo Marx.

He doesn’t love him. Not like that. Valdo becomes his closest friend. The young troubadour joins Oxenfurt in Jaskier’s second year and Jaskier is chosen to be his guide. Valdo is funny and talented and a great wingman.

The two boys become inseparable. If there’s trouble to be had it’s usually down to Jaskier and Valdo.

So, no, Jaskier doesn’t love him. But he’s never had a best friend before. He’s never had anyone know him as well as Valdo does. He remembers Ivan; Ivan had come close but Valdo comes from nobility and understands that kind of pressure in a way Ivan never could. Being friends with Valdo reassures him that maybe one day he can love someone with his whole heart. That he’s not broken or incapable and that someone could love him back too.

* * *

Jaskier hates Valdo Marx.

Hates him more than he’s ever hated anyone in his life.

He had been working on his ballad for the whole semester. He had put his whole heart and soul into it. Had played it to perfection on his lute until his fingers bled. A song of unrequited love and devotion. A song detailing his own struggles with love and figuring out who he was.

Valdo had been there for him. Had listened to his song and told him how to improve. Had told him how good it was and how much their tutors would love it. It was his final piece. The one thing standing between him and graduation.

And Valdo Marx. Valdo fucking Marx. The bastard troubadour of Cidaris stole it.

It's the final week of term. All the students and lecturers are packed into the biggest tavern in town. One by one the students take to the stage to perform their final piece. They are all so good. Jaskier bounces his leg up and down with nerves as it approaches his turn to play.

“I can’t do it,” he whispers to Valdo.

Valdo puts his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder reassuringly, “Your song is great, Jaskier. You’ve got this.”

Jaskier shakes his head, “No. No. I need time.”

“How about I go on before you?” Valdo suggests. “It’ll give you a few more minutes to calm down.”

Jaskier nods and the panic settles a little. He watches Valdo hop up onto stage with his own lute. He downs half his beer and forces himself to focus on his friend's performance.

“This is something I’ve been working on for a few weeks now. I hope you enjoy it,” Valdo flashes the crowd with an award-winning smile and begins to sing.

_Am I allowed to look at her like that?  
Could it be wrong  
When she's just so nice to look at?_

_And she smells like lemongrass and sleep  
She tastes like apple juice and peach  
Oh, you would find her in a_ _n oil panting_ _  
And she_ _means everything to me_

_I'd never tell  
No, I'd never say a word  
And oh, it aches  
But it feels oddly good to hurt_

_And I'll be okay  
Admiring from afar  
'Cause even when she's next to me  
We could not be more far apart  
And she tastes like birthday cake and story time and fall  
But to her  
I taste of nothing at all_

Jaskier is frozen to the spot. The crowd cheers and applauds and gives their gratitude to this thief. Jaskier watches as his work is stolen before him, the only difference being Valdo has switched the pronouns.

His feet are moving before he can register it. He is storming up to the stage. To Valdo’s smug smiling face. And punches him.

Valdo falls to the floor and Jaskier kicks him in the chest again and again. He’s yelling and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. People are holding him back and dragging him off stage and helping Valdo to his feet. Valdo’s nose is bleeding and Jaskier feels satisfaction at seeing his pain.

It isn’t half as hurt as he is right now.

* * *

He gets kicked out of Oxenfurt.

Which is fine, he tells himself. He doesn’t want to associate with a bunch of thieves and smug nobles anyway. He should return to Lettenhove. He should return to his family and learn to be a proper heir.

Instead he decides to travel with his lute.

He still has his fancy clothes but without the courtesy of his parents sending him funds he has to survive off the coin he earns. Or other talents. Most nights he can charm his way into someone’s bed. Some nights he earns enough for a room or for a meal.

He learns the hard way that the common folk are reluctant to part with their coin for any old bard. The more affluent villages give him more money but they demand he play all the classic ballads he finds boring. In the poor villages, he can sing his silly songs about cheating partners and monsters and abortions even if all he gets paid with is stale bread.

* * *

Jaskier finds himself on the far side of Aedirn in a dusty old town. One the first day he arrives, he’s been travelling on foot all day and much too tired to perform. He finds a tavern and charms the locals with his wit, hoping one of them might offer him a bed for the night.

He ends up sleeping under the stars but one of the villagers divulged local details like Old Nan the Hag that Jaskier is already working into a song.

The next day, he performs for the lunch crowd; one of his best performances full of tales of love and woe. He quickly realises that none of his songs are hitting the mark based on the lack of coin being given. That’s fine, he thinks as he sits and waits for the evening crowd, if they won’t appreciate his talents then he’ll give them a bad performance and hopefully get the scraps of their dinner thrown at him.

He’ll probably have better luck a few towns over, the population here isn’t very lively, but something makes him want to stay. Posada feels familiar, like part of him already knew it, and he’s reluctant to leave until he has to.

His stomach rumbles painfully, a reminder that he’s too low on coin to afford anything beyond an ale every few hours so the barkeep lets him stay. When the crowd begins to grow he moves from his table over to the corner of the tavern to tune his lute.

Jaskier opens with the song he had written specifically for Posada, making sure to sing loudly and move around to grab everyone’s attention. Within a minute they’re hurling abuse and their bread at him. Apart from one.

“I’m so glad I could bring you all together like this,” he yells at them, rolling his eyes at their lack of appreciation. He quickly gathers up the bread off the floor and stuffing as much as he can into his pants.

The man who hadn’t joined in with the others is still sat there. From across the tavern, Jaskier can see that this might be the most attractive man he’s ever seen in his life. Transfixed he walks over, grabbing an ale off the barmaid.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” he says by way of an opening line, immediately cursing himself.

“I’m here to drink alone,” the man says in a gravelly voice that does nothing to discourage Jaskier.

“Yeah, good, yeah,” he nods, desperately trying to think of a way to keep talking. Which meant asking for a review of his performance and the tragic line, “Come on, you don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.” He tries not to sigh out loud at himself; he is excellent at flirting, usually, until he tries to flirt with someone clearly unattainable. Whether that be way out of his league or clearly uninterested, this man was both but he wasn’t going to give up.

Then he finds out that the man is a Witcher. Jaskier has never met one but the revelation fills him with excitement. If nothing else, he’s sure he’s just found his new muse. Even better, he then realises _which_ Witcher he is sat in front of. His mind is already brimming with ideas for songs about epic tales and heroic quests.

Geralt stands before Jaskier can get any further than figuring out who he is. He leaves a coin on the table for him. Jaskier picks it up and looks at the copper; he was the only one to give him any coin for his performance. If he ever had any thought that a Witcher had no feelings then that squashes it completely. Geralt is nearly out of the tavern and Jaskier can’t let him leave just yet, so he announces his presence loudly to the whole tavern.

* * *

He needs a minute to pack up his lute and by the time he leaves the tavern Geralt is already gone. Jaskier can guess where he’s gone, though, and jogs up the mountain track as fast as possible until he sees the Witcher.

“Need a hand? I’ve got two, one for each of the, uh, devil’s horns,” he says eagerly as he catches up. If Geralt will only let him stay to help then he gladly will, he can handle himself in a fight, although he’d rather watch and document.

The gut punch sends him to the floor but the bruise he'll have on his stomach isn't going to stop him following the Witcher.

* * *

When he regains consciousness, he’s tied back to back with Geralt. There are voices somewhere to his right but he doesn’t dare to look just yet. There’s something familiar about these caves just as there had been in Posada. He tries to cast his mind back to when he was a child and if they had ever visited but he draws a blank.

He feels Geralt stir behind him and breathes a sigh of relief. “This is the part where we escape,” he says over his shoulder.

“This is the part where they kill us.”

“Who’s they?”

An angry looking woman is walking over to them now. “Beast!” she yells in Elder.

“Elves.”

He hears them messing with his lute. The out of tune way they pluck harshly at the strings. “Oi! That’s my lute. Give that back! Quick, Geralt, do your witchering.”

The woman is yelling at him to shut up in Elder. He hasn’t spoken any Elder since Oxenfurt but his tutors had always called him a natural.

“My Elder speech is rough. I only got part of that,” he lies.

“Humans, shut up.”

“Ah, got it, thanks,” he replies in perfect Elder feeling a little smug. It earns him another punch in the gut.

They’re bashing at his lute now. “No, please not the lute!” It’s too late. They’ve broken it down into pieces. There goes his career. How is he meant to make money as a bard without an instrument?

“Leave off. He’s just a bard.” Geralt defends him and his heart flutters. He’s not going to deny that the man is incredibly handsome. Ignoring the slight smell of onion and the gut punches he’s piqued Jaskier’s interest in a way no one has for a long time.

The woman continues to yell and he yells back, never one to back down in a fight. It’s landed him in trouble more times than he can count but he can’t stop. It’s instinctive.

“Do you like my palace?” the elf taunts. Geralt headbutts her and Jaskier laughs loudly. Until the elf starts coughing, and even if he is tied up he then realises that there are very few elves here. In fact, he then takes a proper look around the dusty cave and begins to put the pieces together.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks, even though he already knows where this is going.

“She’s sick,” a new voice joins them and Jaskier looks over his shoulder to see another elf with silvery blonde hair. He looks familiar but Jaskier can’t place him.

“Oh, and who’s this?”

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves.”

The name is familiar too, but Jaskier is still struggling to pinpoint it. Maybe he heard the name in a passing history lecture. Filavandrel is staring at him with a strange look in his eyes and Jaskier turns away.

“Not a king. Not by choice,” there’s an edge to Filavandrel’s voice.

“You were stealing for them,” Geralt says.

“I felt for them,” the Sylvan defends, “They were forced out of Dol Blathana.”

“Forced out?” Jaskier pipes up, he remembers this section of history very well. One of the greatest feats of the Great Cleansing when Temerian forces cleared the last vestiges of the east of elves in the Great Cleansing. “No, they chose-”

“Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home? To starve?”

Jaskier had never liked learning about the Great Cleansing, he’d never really met elves but something about it hadn’t sat right with him. He should have realised sooner what happened. He was a bard, after all, it was his job to spin tales and history was no different.

He listens silently as Geralt tries to bargain their release with the elves then Filavandrel speaks up again. “The Great Cleansing, they called. I called it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans watch these very fields grow, our babies fertilizer for their grain.”

Jaskier feels sick to his stomach. He wants to go back to Oxenfurt and find all the history books and correct them so that everyone will know about the horrors elves have faced. And still, he knows that humans already knew, scholars definitely knew, and the injustice was consciously hidden so that humans could feel better about themselves.

“If you must kill me, I’m ready,” Geralt says and Jaskier may panic just a little.

He’s only eighteen and not exactly ready to die, thank you very much. Filavandrel readies his blade and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. The sharp edge of a sword kisses his neck and it’s just his luck that they kill him first.

Then the blade retreats and he opens his eyes. Filavandrel is stood in front of him, jaw tense, “Torque is right. The Witcher is different, like us.” He looks at Jaskier as he says this and he thinks they might let Geralt go and kill only him. “The bard, too, I suspect. Let them go.”

Toruviel steps forward and releases their bonds and Jaskier lets out a breath when he can bring his arms forward again.

Jaskier walks over to the tattered remains of his lute, there’s no way to fix it. Without it, he won’t be able to make enough to buy a new one. He doesn’t fancy trying to find a job like bartending or mucking out stables but that seems to be what his near future holds. Maybe he could follow Geralt for a while.

“I’m sorry about your lute, my friend,” Filavandrel is beside him and giving him that odd look again.

Jaskier scratches the back of his head, a broken lute pales in comparison to what the elves have gone through. “Nothing to worry about. The name’s Jaskier, by the way, thanks for letting us go.”

Filavandrel furrows his brows, “Jaskier,” he looks at him for a long moment and Jaskier begins to feel uncomfortable. Finally, he nods, “Please, take this.” He holds out a very ornate looking lute, easily five times the price of his own.

“Oh, no, no, thank you,” he shakes his head, “I could never. I don’t want to take from you, not when you have so little.”

Filivandrel smiles and huffs a laugh, “Still the same, I see.”

Jaskier doesn’t have time to question that before the lute is being pushed into his hands.

“Please, take it,” Filavandrel insists, “It’s yours now. As it should be.”

“Uhh, okay,” Jaskier puts the strap around himself and tests the strings, all perfectly in tune and sound almost magical, “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Filavandrel places his hand on his shoulder and squeezes, “There is nothing to repay, my friend.”

Jaskier nods and catches sight of Geralt leaving the cave. “Well, thank you, again. And good luck, with whatever you decide to do.”

He jogs to catch up with Geralt and is mildly surprised to see it’s still daylight outside. He strums his new lute thoughtfully already putting together his epic ballad to play when they got back to town.

* * *

“Does that mean I can tag along on your adventures?” Toss A Coin was clearly going to be his big break.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier grins, “I’ll take that as a yes. You sure you don’t want to stay in my room?”

“I’m sure,” Geralt nods, then hands over a handful of money. “Here, I wouldn’t have this if not for your song. Thank you,” he looks pained by every word.

Jaskier takes the coin with surprise, “Thanks,” he blinks then narrows his eyes, “I hope you don’t think this means you can leave me.”

Geralt only smirks and leaves to make camp. Jaskier retires to his room but doesn’t get much sleep. When dawn comes he races out of the inn to Geralt’s camp to find him already packing up.

“Phew, caught you just in time!”

If Geralt is surprised or annoyed by his presence he doesn’t make it known, but he still won’t let him ride Roach.

* * *

Jaskier spends an hour pacing the camp and jumping at any sound he hears. He’s not usually so skittish, however, the werewolf Geralt is hunting might be a bit out of his depth and there’s no protection at camp.

He’s also worried about Geralt. This is the first contract he’s taken since Jaskier started following him. As much as he believes in the Witcher’s fighting capabilities, it would be just his luck for Geralt to die and leave Jaskier in the middle of nowhere alone.

“Fuck,” he jumps out of his skin when Geralt stumbles into camp. The Witcher barely spares him a glance before taking off his armour and grumbling to himself. “What happened? Did you kill it?” he fetches his notebook as fast as he can, “Tell me everything.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “I killed it.”

Jaskier hovers his quill over the empty page, “Well, that’s good. What else?”

“Nothing else.”

“But what happened? What was the fight like?”

Geralt sends him a glare that would strike fear into any man, but Jaskier is more bothered about getting a decent story. Toss A Coin is going down a hit in taverns but it won’t do to only have one song about the White Wolf. He needs material. “Like ordinary.”

Jaskier sighs heavily, receiving another glare, “And what is ordinary to you? I need details.”

Geralt shrugs, tossing aside his chest piece, “I used my sword.”

Jaskier pauses, unsure whether Geralt seriously considers that detail or is messing with him. “Anything else?”

“The silver one.”

Trying to get any more detail out of Geralt is practically impossible so Jaskier starts composing his own piece with lots of embellishment to fill it out. Otherwise, it would be the worlds shortest verse.

“That’s not how it happened.”

“Then tell me how it did,” Jaskier challenges. Geralt says nothing more and Jaskier performs it in the next town. Another hit.

* * *

After that, when Geralt leaves him at camp, Jaskier will wait a grand total of one minute before following him into the depth of the forest. If Geralt won’t tell him what happened then he will simply have to find them out himself.

The first time he sees Geralt fight he can scarcely breathe. He moves fast and elegantly with his sword. Only a small part of him fears for Geralt’s life as the rest of him is assured that nothing could ever defeat him.

Geralt slays the beast and hacks off the head. Then he looks up at Jaskier where he had thought he was hidden in the tree line, “I told you to stay at camp.”

Jaskier saunters out of his hiding spot, “I needed to see. Excellent work by the way,” he lightly kicks the dead monster.

“Hmm.”

* * *

“Geralt, look out!” the words escape him before he can stop them, but his heart had been in his throat.

The fight is over quickly but his body is still full of adrenaline. For a moment he had been sure the strange serpent-dragon creature would kill him. They get back to camp and he rushes to his lute then realises Geralt is injured.

He doesn’t know what compels him to invade the Witcher’s space and dress the wound himself. He’s already examining the wound before he realises his actions may result in another gut punch. It doesn’t, Geralt lets him.

Then he’s stitching up the wound and he has no clue what he’s doing, but skin can’t be much different than darning together ripped clothing, right? Geralt hisses and Jaskier automatically touches his thigh and whispers soft encouragement.

His cheeks burn at his own actions but he doesn’t stop until the wound is all stitched up. Geralt stands up when he’s done but Jaskier needs a moment to gather himself.

* * *

Jaskier barely notices the months slipping past. All too soon he needs to leave for a bardic competition he got word Valdo Marx was entering and needs beating in. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt but he’s been waiting for his chance at revenge for a year.

They part ways and he hopes it isn’t the last time he sees him. The journey to Cidaris is lonely without Geralt. Two short months had felt like years, a familiarity and comfort and he feels lost without it.

Still, when he arrives in Cidaris he focusses all his energy on the competition.

He seeks out the others who have signed up to scout the talent he’s up against. They’re pretty good but Jaskier had always got the highest marks at Oxenfurt, well, until Valdo stole his music and he got kicked out.

Speaking of Valdo, he sits at the back of a tavern watching the smug bastard perform. He doesn’t know how he could have ever been friends with him. He reeks of smugness as he holds the attention of the bar despite having no depth to his performance.

He played beautifully, never a wrong note and never out of time. Truly skilled, Jaskier will begrudgingly admit, but that was all he had. No emotion seeped into the lyrics or the playing. It made for a dull and stiff performance as far as Jaskier was concerned.

Valdo had probably stolen this song, too.

After the set Valdo finds him easily, “Jaskier, what a delight to see you.”

Jaskier glowers, “Valdo, to what do I owe the displeasure.”

Valdo laughs, “It’s good to see you.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jaskier grits his teeth, “Still stealing songs?”

Valdo sighs and puts his hand over his heart, “Jaskier, I’m truly sorry for what happened.” Like his music, his apology lacks any emotional depth.

“Sure. I wish I’d punched you harder.”

“If you punch me now it’s an instant disqualification,” Valdo smirks, “Not that you have any chance of winning.”

Jaskier tightens his hand around his tankard, “You son of a-”

“Good luck,” Valdo smiles and leaves.

He doesn’t win the competition; he comes in second. Valdo comes in third and Jaskier can barely restrain his laughter at the affronted look on his face. He leaves with a decent amount of coin in his pocket and a Witcher to find

* * *

“Maybe you could come with me next year?” he ponders out loud as they settle into a room for the night.

“Hmm?”

“To the bardic competition. If my muse were there in person then I’d be the talk of the town and I’d get first place.”

“You sang about me?” Geralt asks, looking at him with wide surprised eyes.

“Of course,” Jaskier says easily, pulling the covers up to his chin. “All my best songs are about you.”

Geralt’s gaze lingers on him for a moment before he gets into the adjacent single bed. “Really?” he asks quietly.

“Really.”

* * *

Unfortunately, he only has a month with Geralt before winter sets in.

“You can’t come with me, only Witchers can stay at Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier tries not to feel disappointed, eager to stay with Geralt and also meet other Witchers. “Oh, right, that’s okay. Um, would you mind terribly pointing me in the direction of Oxenfurt?”

“The university?”

“Yeah, it’s where I went, I got kicked out for fighting but I think they’ll let me stay.”

“You went to Oxenfurt?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier thinks he hears astonishment in his voice.

“Yeah,” he laughs awkwardly, “Haven’t I told you before?”

Geralt shakes his head, “No. It’s east, by the way. And I don’t need to point you, I’ll take you.”

“Wait really?” Jaskier feels giddy at being able to see more of him.

“It’s,” Geralt pauses, “Dangerous. To travel alone.”

Jaskier does not point out that he has travelled alone before or that he doesn’t need protecting. He’s just happy that Geralt wants to stay with him for a bit longer, too.

* * *

“Geralt,” he whines, “It’s my birthday, please.”

Geralt huffs but relents and lets Jaskier drag him around Novigrad with minimal complaint. There’s a crowd everywhere they go, as is to be expected by one of the largest cities on the Continent. He feels a little claustrophobic, he’s never really liked huge crowds, but he soldiers on.

He wants to take Geralt’s hand so they don’t get separated amongst the people but he doesn’t. They easily waste half the afternoon getting lost around the city and Jaskier is surprised Geralt hasn’t ditched him yet.

“Are you hungry?” he asks when the sun begins to wane.

“Starving.”

They find a tavern and Geralt even pays for their dinner, “A birthday treat.” Then Jaskier makes a deal with himself to get him and Geralt blind drunk.

It takes seven ales to get Geralt telling him a story that has nothing to do with monsters, well almost, he’s telling him about some alderman who didn’t want to pay him. To Jaskier, it’s the funniest story he’s ever heard, although that might be because Geralt even cracks a few smiles and Jaskier is drunk on more than just the alcohol.

* * *

They’ve managed to wrangle a room at the inn for a night, although it’s so hot Jaskier thinks it might have been more comfortable outside. It’s a double bed and Geralt has already said he’ll sleep on the floor, Jaskier is more than happy to relinquish the sheets for him to lie on – he won’t be needing them.

For now, they’re both sat on the bed, shirtless and trying to stave off the heat.

“I don’t suppose you have a sign that’s the opposite of ignii?” Jaskier asks, trying not to look at Geralt’s displayed chest. “Make us cooler?”

Geralt huffs and his lips raise in a blink and you’ll miss it smile, “Unfortunately not.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, “Fuck sake.” He’d give anything to be out of this heat right now. He’s incredibly close to peeling off his skin. It’s too hot to seek out someone to entertain him for the night and the bar closed hours ago. “Tell me a story, Geralt.”

Geralt closes his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh, “No.”

“Come on,” he prods Geralt’s arm at a scar across his bicep, “What about this one? For me, your best friend in the world?”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt bites and Jaskier follows the sting that arises whenever he says so. He knows it’s not true, it can’t be because they’ve been travelling together for over nearly two years now. And a quiet part of him reminds him that it might be true. He had thought Valdo was his friend, had thought that was proof he could love and be loved, and it was all a lie. Maybe Geralt isn't his friend, maybe he isn't good enough to be.

He isn't in the mood to delve into his psyche right now so forces himself to focus on Geralt's scar.

“Please. Pretty please?”

“Fine,” Geralt grumbles, “I got it about two centuries ago. It was a succubus and it had a mayor’s daughter and didn’t want to give her up so easily. Damn near severed my arm.”

“Did you save her?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier begins to hum a melody, trying to figure out how to work it into a song. He feels Geralt stiffen beside him, he never likes songs about him but that doesn’t stop him. He grabs his lute and the song easily comes together, he barely has to think of a chord progression; it all comes pouring out of him in a burst of inspiration.

When he finishes it must be well past midnight but he’s too hot to sleep. Geralt is making no move to the makeshift bed set up on the floor. “What about this one?” he asks, trailing his fingers ever so lightly over the raised scar on Geralt chest.

“A vampire.”

“Very sexy.”

Geralt shoots him a glare and he can’t help but laugh, “Go on, tell me more.”

To his surprise and delight, Geralt does tell him about the scar and all the ones Jaskier asks about after. He even dares to run his fingers over each one he draws attention to. Geralt shivers under his touch but doesn’t shove him off.

Jaskier is breathless as he hangs on every word. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Geralt talk so much in one go. By the end of the night he has dozens of ideas for songs, each meaning behind each scar memorised.

* * *

He’s never been in such agony in his life.

Jaskier had followed Geralt to watch him hunt like always. A manticore, he’d never seen one before and could barely contain himself. Geralt had strictly instructed him to stay well hidden.

Then after the fight had dragged on for a few minutes Geralt’s sword had been throw out of reach. The manticore flew above him, tail ready to pierce him.

“No!” he yelled, running out of his hiding place.

Within seconds the manticore was swiping at him, embedding its stinger deep in his thigh. With a slash of his sword Geralt kills the beast but Jaskier can only focus on the searing pain.

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt growls, tugging his doublet off his shoulders, yanking out the stinger which sends a fresh ripple of pain through his leg.

Jaskier thinks he might pass out and when Geralt leaves him alone he thinks he’ll die. It feels like years before Geralt is racing back to him and handing him something to drink. It’s foul-tasting but he doesn’t care.

Geralt has a needle at the ready and tears his trousers apart and Jaskier can see his muscle. He might throw up. The pain is blinding when Geralt presses the needle to the muscle and pushes in.

He screams his throat hoarse in pain but clenches his fists so hard they might break so that he doesn’t move his leg and cause even more pain.

“Am I dead?” he asks when it stops, breathless and barely awake.

“No,” Geralt shakes his head, worry written clear across his face.

Jaskier grins lazily, “Careful, almost sounds like you care about me.”

Geralt doesn’t grace him with a response just leaves him be for a moment and returns with a water skin that no longer smells of only water. Jaskier doesn’t care what’s in it, he trusts Geralt with his life, he drinks the whole thing.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep or the amount of times he wakes up in the night. In the morning, he rises to Geralt sat beside him wide awake and a collection of potions by his side.

“What are they for?”

Geralt avoids his gaze and Jaskier thinks he might be blushing, “In case anything happened. To you.”

Jaskier sits up, biting his lip as his leg screams in pain. “I’m not a Witcher, in case you forgot.”

“They’re the least poisonous ones.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, “But still poisonous.”

“Yes, but it might help, watered down. You’d die either way, or it might help. The golden oriole worked on you.”

Jaskier chuckles, “So you do care about me.”

“No,” Geralt denies with no heat or truth behind the words.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier rolls his eyes and Geralt fetches him some dried meat for breakfast. “Think you might help a friend to his feet?”

He’s not looking forward to walking on his leg but they can’t stay here forever. Instead of helping him to his feet, Geralt picks him up bridal style. Jaskier’s heart skips a beat at being held like this and then again when Geralt puts him on Roach.

“You can ride her till your leg’s healed.”

“Thank you,” his voice sounds wrecked.

* * *

It gets to the point when Jaskier can’t deny his feelings any more. Not that he ever really tried to in the first place but after a few years of following Geralt around he realises it isn’t just a crush, infatuation or a passing fancy. He is well and truly in love with the Witcher.

It’s not a surprise when he finally figures it out. Or rather, the barmaid figures it out for him.

“Why do you only sing about him?” she asks, holding the bedsheets to her body to cover herself.

Jaskier has a sheet lazily slung over his lap while he plucks out a melody he doesn’t want to forget. “What do you mean?”

“The Witcher, all your songs are about him.”

“Not all of them,” he denies, but most of them are. The ones he performs, anyway. The songs detailing his feelings or love stories remain largely hidden from people.

She hums disbelievingly, “He’s so rude to you, though. Don’t you think your talents should be focussed on someone you love?” she trails his fingers suggestively over his chest.

I do love him, though, Jaskier thinks and then freezes. He quickly recovers and sends her a winning smile, “My lady, are you asking for a song dedicated to you?”

She smirks, “Perhaps,” she draws him into a heated kiss and the sheets fall away. When he lies awake next to her that night he can’t help but feel wrong. All he can think about is Geralt.

He loves him. Gods, how did he not notice? Jaskier doesn’t know when it happened, he can’t trace it into a singular point. It feels like he’s always loved him, from before he even met him and maybe that’s why he hadn’t noticed.

In the following week, he flirts his way from town to town as usual but it feels wrong. The part of him that could charm anyone and lose himself for a night is now gone. He’s hyper-aware of Geralt across the bar. He can’t focus on whoever is in front of him when his mind is picturing yellow eyes.

He stops sleeping around. It’s not like he needs to for a bed or some food anymore. He’s famous enough to get such hospitality from his performance alone.

Jaskier doesn’t mention his feelings. Geralt treats him the same as always with an aloof attitude and hints of moments where he seems to actually care about him. There’s no way he would let him follow him if he found out.

A bard’s life is doomed to unrequited love, an occupational hazard. Yet for all the epic ballad’s and tales of woe Jaskier had studied and loved at Oxenfurt, he never understood how truly painful it would be.

* * *

It gets even more painful when Geralt decides to start visiting brothels.

Jaskier knew Geralt had visited some in the early years of their travels, but lately, he goes more frequently. Every village they pass that has one in fact. Instead of him spending the night in someone else’s bed, it’s Geralt who leaves him to his own devices.

He wonders if Geralt’s newfound libido is because he doesn’t like sharing a room with Jaskier so frequently.

He’s glad that he doesn’t have to see any of it. Doesn’t have to see the women Geralt would rather spend his time with. Doesn’t have to see him hold someone close when he keeps Jaskier at an arm’s length.

* * *

“I want no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet, here we are,” Jaskier sinks to the lean on the side of the bath and looks pointedly at Geralt.

He’s sure the Witcher must hear his racing heartbeat, must smell the want on him. He’s outright saying he needs him, putting everything on the line. He holds his breath waiting for the reply, whether it is what he wants or not.

“Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

Jaskier swallows the bitterness. Of course, Geralt wouldn’t acknowledge his practical declaration of love. He’s a master of hiding his true feelings by now, though, and doesn’t break the comfortable dynamic of friendship.

* * *

Two lords break out in a fight over a manticore and how many stingers they have. Jaskier has first-hand knowledge and a rather nasty scar on his thigh that would say they’re both wrong.

Queen Calanthe suddenly calls attention to Geralt and he says as such. Then one of the lords calls Geralt the Butcher of Blaviken. Jaskier swallows, he’s worked for years to repair his image and still people don’t want to see him as the hero he is.

Geralt’s eyes find his across the hall and he shakes his head, thankfully he agrees to not utterly humiliate the lords like they deserve. Jaskier would love to see it but it’s a bit early in the night for an all-out brawl.

He spends the night flirting with a lady from Redania and performing. It’s less fun now that he can’t talk to Geralt anymore but he’s high on performing at such an esteemed event.

The arrival of a cursed knight sets of a chain of events that happens so quick Jaskier can barely keep track. He raises his lute in defence when the fight breaks out, usually, he’d be happy to jump in but the number of swords is a bit out of his depth.

When Pavetta’s sheer power kicks up a whirlwind sending him flying back he covers the head of the Redanian lady. He can’t look away from the Princess hovering in the sky.

The air crackles with the amount of chaos and through it all he hears a voice whisper, loud enough he can hear it over the noise of the banquet.

_You will live forever, I swear it. You will see everything you ever loved die and turn to ash. You will walk this Sphere and regret your deeds in the face of all you have lost._

Jaskier sees Geralt chug a potion and make a sign and then Pavetta and Duny come crashing to the ground.

“Did you hear that whispering?” he asks the Redanian lady as everyone gets to their feet.

“What whispering?”

“Nothing,” he frowns, wondering how she couldn’t have heard it when it was so loud. Then he realises only he heard it. He’ll ask Geralt about it later.

Except Geralt claims the Law of Surprise and leaves Cintra before he can.

* * *

Jaskier decides that just because Geralt doesn’t want to accept responsibility for his choices doesn’t mean he has to. He doesn’t mean for it to end up like this. He really doesn’t.

After Jaskier found him a month after Cintra they had spent several months heading as far away from the place as possible. When Geralt left him to go hole up in Kaer Morhen Jaskier decided to see if he could spend winter in the Cintran court.

He has plenty of friends there and it’s big enough not to step on anyone’s toes. He receives a very threatening letter from the Queen herself telling him not to mention Geralt in any capacity but otherwise, he may stay.

The first winter Pavetta is still pregnant. He plays for a few banquets but the cold months and frozen roads mean the court doesn’t get many visitors. He plays in towns at the local inns, sometimes for a small audience of bored courtiers, sometimes Pavetta herself requests him for a private performance.

“Tell me, bard, is it true? What Geralt of Rivia said about those elves?” she had asked the first time.

Jaskier had paused, not wanting to reveal his biggest song was a lie, but she looked desperate. He told her the full story.

“I wish my mother didn’t hate them,” she had sighed, “She likes to kill them. They’re just people. When I’m Queen I’m going to forbid the killing of elves.”

“Then I eagerly await your regency.” After that, they had become fast friends.

* * *

“Your music soothes her,” she explains. “She likes to kick.”

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Jaskier asks as he plays a lullaby.

Pavetta smiles, “I just know.”

Jaskier spends a lot of time with Pavetta. She is a gentle soul, so unlike her mother, Jaskier wonders what happened. But he sees the rage in her eyes and the power she holds flickering behind it.

They are in the gardens watching the snowfall under the shelter of a gazebo, arms linked. “Is your husband jealous of your sweet affection for me?” Jaskier flirts.

Pavetta laughs loudly. “Oh, immensely.”

Jaskier is closer to Pavetta than he is to Duny, but he is still friends with the man. They have an ongoing joke that Jaskier was trying, successfully, to steal away the princess.

“Princess! Truly you must come inside. It’s much too cold,” a man dressed in fancy clothes rushes to her side.

“I’m fine here,” Pavetta dismisses.

The man won’t take no for an answer. “Princess, you must think of the baby.” He grabs her arm to lead her away and places his hand on her baby bump.

Jaskier sees the rage flash behind Pavetta’s eyes. She slaps the man's hands away and steps threateningly towards him. In that moment, he sees Calanthe. “If you dare lay another hand on me again I will have them cut off.”

“My apologies,” the man scuttles off, throwing fearing glances over his shoulder as he returns inside.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks quietly.

Pavetta sighs and nods, “Yes. It’s just, men sometimes. No offence.”

“None taken.”

* * *

He leaves when the snows melt and spring buds show on the trees. Pavetta whines that he won’t be there for the birth of her daughter. Jaskier reassures her he will be there next winter.

Travelling with Geralt becomes harder when he can’t talk about what he had truly been doing that winter. He lies and says he lectured in Oxenfurt, he prays Geralt doesn’t find out the truth. Part of him wants to tell him and convince him to come with him to Cintra.

He’s dying to meet Pavetta’s daughter and she is Geralt’s Child Surprise he ought to meet her too.

“Pavetta should’ve had her child by now,” he says as casually as possible one summer night.

“Hmm,” Geralt shoots him a scathing glare and he drops the topic. Maybe next year.

* * *

“On my carpet no less!” The mayor is talking nonstop trying to find a way to get out of paying Geralt for the contract and the monster head he had dumped on his office floor. Jaskier lounges in one of the armchairs as he waits for him to run out of breath.

It’s almost funny the way the man talks in circles until his cheeks turn red. He makes eye contact with Geralt and begins to feel his stomach constrict with barely contained laughter. Even Geralt’s eyes light up with mirth until they’re both stood there shaking silently with laughter.

“I have never been so disrespected in my life-”

“My good man, if you pay us we’ll simply be on our way,” Jaskier interrupts, now that he’s spoken he can’t stop the laughter.

He hears Geralt clear his throat to hide the chuckle that escapes.

“How dare you come into my home and-”

“Take care of your monster problem? Yes, you’re very welcome. Our coin?”

Very reluctantly, the mayor gives them a bag of coin. The second they step out of his house Jaskier has to stop to finally let out the laughter. “It wasn’t that funny,” Geralt rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

“Yes, it was. He looked like he was going to have a stroke,” Jaskier takes a few deep breaths, his cheeks hurting from smiling. One look at Geralt is nearly enough to send him reeling again. He pats his shoulder, “Fancy an ale?”

* * *

Jaskier throws the punch without thinking. And then lunges at the man twice his size, this time thinking and deciding all things considered he has a good chance. The man goes to the floor under his attack and he lands a few more punches before someone is pulling him off.

Then that person socks Jaskier right in the eye. He stumbles back and into someone else who then joins the fight. He elbows the man behind him and kicks the man who punched him directly in the balls.

“Take that, fucker,” he grins, spinning around and grabbing a bottle. He smashes it against the bar and holds the jagged edge towards the three men circling him. He moves first, jamming it at the closest man's face who yells and backs away holding his bloodied cheek.

He drops the bottle as another rushes forward to tackle him to the ground. The man lifts off him, or is lifted off him by Geralt. And then Geralt grabs his arm and pulls him away sending a threatening glare at the three men. He grabs their stuff in one hand, the other still on Jaskier’s bicep, and drags him out of the bar.

“What the hell, Jaskier?”

“What?” Jaskier shucks him off, prodding at his right cheekbone that is already swelling and no doubt bruised.

“Why did you do that?”

“Didn’t you hear what they were saying about you?”

* * *

Winter comes again and Jaskier finds himself racing to Cintra.

“She’s beautiful,” Jaskier says adoringly of the sleeping babe.

Pavetta smiles proudly, “You won’t say that when she wakes and starts crying.”

“I’ll sing her lullabies when that happens.”

* * *

He doesn’t see Pavetta as much as last year. She’s too busy being a mother to the young Cirilla to make time for him. But he makes every effort to see her as much as he can.

Cirilla’s screams are enough to wake the castle. She falls asleep to his lullabies.

“None of the other bards put her to sleep,” Pavetta whispers, not wanting to wake the baby again.

Jaskier smiles tiredly. He’d been woken in the middle of the night by Cirilla’s cries and had come to see if he could help. He’s not dressed appropriately whatsoever, he’s in a loose top and trousers. He’d be caught dead before being seen like this by royalty on any other occasion. “Happy to help.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

* * *

_He’s drawing in a notebook, which is strange because he never usually draws when his brain is filling up space on the pages with words. Geralt walks over and he snaps the book shut. He’s not sure what’s so secretive about stick figure drawings but he knows he fills with dread at it being seen._

_Geralt disappears from sight. Jaskier looks around but the camp is filled with other men, none of whom he recognises and one woman. She spins a dagger between her fingers and a few of the men are brawling. She’s wearing a brooch that looks like the one tied to Geralt’s sword handle._

_Jaskier stands, meaning to ask where she got it from but when he does the scenery changes and he’s in a banquet hall. It’s very elegant and decorated with gold. He’s stood at the royal table. Geralt is there, he holds out his hand for him and he takes it._

He’s dizzy when he wakes and sighs when he realises he’s had another of the nightmares. Or not-always-a-nightmare-nightmare. He can’t shake the feeling of wrongness, not dissimilar to the feeling of being watched.

Jaskier sits awake until it’s time for breakfast and then he leaves to see if Pavetta or Duny want to put up with him for a few hours.

* * *

When spring comes again, he’s reluctant to leave. Cirilla is just starting to recognise people and make babble for what she wants.

He wishes he could stay and watch her grow. He knows he could. Geralt will hardly be seeking him out – it was always him that sought the Witcher. But as much as he loves Cirilla he also loves Geralt and his heart can’t go without seeing him. He pines for him enough over the winter months.

* * *

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls out the second he sees him, which, as it happens, is in the middle of a performance.

The drunks all boo him off stage but Jaskier doesn’t care. Geralt has sat in the back corner and Jaskier goes to him, stumbling over loose floorboards in his hurry. He’s making a fool of himself but he doesn’t care. It’s been too long since he’s seen him.

“Geralt,” he says again as he sits opposite him, breathless and ecstatic to see him. “How strange to run into you here, I haven’t heard of any monsters in the area?” He hopes that Geralt doesn’t ask about why Jaskier is absolutely nowhere near Oxenfurt and reasonably shouldn’t be able to travel this quick.

“There isn’t. I’m just stopping for the night,” Geralt replies, Jaskier thinks he catches a hint of a smile from his friend but it quickly disappears.

Jaskier knows that Geralt never stops in a town if they don’t have a monster, they only do it when he complains about sleeping outside too much and he relents. He half wonders if Geralt was passing through and heard him singing so decided to stay. Or perhaps he was actively looking for him. That makes him giddy to think about even if he knows it’s just a silly fantasy.

“So, where are we heading to?”

Geralt tilts his head to the side and Jaskier can easily read the small spark of surprise that crosses his face. Even after all these years whenever they are reunited Geralt always seems confused as to why Jaskier continues to follow him.

“There are a few villages north of here that have some monster troubles.”

Jaskier nods eagerly, as much as he loves the Cintran court it was nowhere near as exciting as being on the road with Geralt. “Excellent, I’ve been running out of new material for my songs.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, “Not enough cheating wives or courtly dramas in Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier exhales quickly, he hasn’t prepared a story for his winter yet, he scrunches his face up and hopes his faux displeasure masks his panic. “Not nearly enough. Any drama is amongst my students relationships problems, not nearly anything interesting enough to work into a song.”

“And you still find monster-hunting interesting?”

“You’ll always be interesting,” Jaskier says easily. It takes a moment for it to sink in that he had just called Geralt specifically interesting and not the monsters. He braces for a berating or for Geralt to shut off and leave him. But Geralt says nothing, doesn’t seem upset by Jaskier’s blatant admission. Jaskier relaxes somewhat but his fingers still rub together anxiously.

“I’m leaving at dawn,” Geralt supplies after a minute of silence.

“I better get packing then,” Jaskier excuses himself and goes to his room to hastily shove everything he owns into his bag. He curses himself for being so obvious about how he feels about Geralt.

If Geralt ever found out that Jaskier had deeper feelings than just friendship then he would surely never let him travel with him again. Once again he hopes for Geralt to be too emotionally constipated to recognise the meaning behind his words.

* * *

He’s back in Cintra for winter again. Geralt had escorted him to Oxenfurt before leaving him. Jaskier feels bad at lying to his dearest friend, especially when the Witcher went out of his way to take him to the place he believed he would be.

Jaskier knows it’s for the best, he can already imagine the shit storm it will cause when Geralt eventually catches word of his lies. It’s a wonder it hasn’t come up before now. He’s been visiting Cintra for three years now. When he finds Geralt in spring it’s never near Oxenfurt, he counts his blessings that his friend is endlessly oblivious.

Ciri has grown so much in his absence. She is walking now and can say a few words, which consist mostly of demands for attention or food. Jaskier is sat in front of her playing a children’s song he had enjoyed when he was a boy. Ciri is laughing and clapping along to the song, very out of time but it’s adorable just the same.

Duny is sat at the table on the other side of the room, enjoying the brief rest of not being needed by Ciri. “I am eternally grateful that Calanthe allows you in the kingdom, you’re the only one who can keep up with her,” he gestures to his daughter with a fond roll of his eyes.

It was no secret that the little princess was quite the handful. Jaskier had missed out on the period over summer where the girl had figured out that as a princess the servants would appease her every desire. Extra playtime, extra snacks, late bedtimes. Even if Ciri couldn’t say half the words she meant she could certainly scream if she didn’t get them and nobody wanted to be the reason a princess cried.

Most nannies that had been hired barely lasted a few weeks, so Jaskier had heard. Pavetta had told him that parenting duties fell on herself and her husband which was difficult to handle with their other royal responsibilities.

When Jaskier arrived in Cintra he had jumped on the opportunity to spend as much time with Ciri as possible. He loved playing with the toddler and he was no stranger to tantrums. Even if he did harbour a fear of Calanthe, he wasn’t afraid of Ciri.

“She’s the one who needs to keep up with me,” Jaskier smiles.

When Ciri gets bored of listening to him play for her she tries to grab his lute and he gives it up easily. She settles it into her own lap and it looks comically large against her small hands. She tries to copy him and form a chord but puts her hand down randomly on the strings. When she plucks, the note twangs painfully. Jaskier winces at the sight of her plucking at the strings hard enough to break them.

“Yes?” Ciri looks up at him with big eyes awaiting his approval.

Jaskier’s heart melts and any worry he had for his lute disappears, as much as he loves it he loves her more. “Yes,” he reassures, “But try a bit gentler.”

He shows her how to strum the strings a lot softer, she copies. She still uses too much force and is playing a chord that doesn’t exist but the sound that comes from the instrument is a lot less painful.

“Much better,” he grins, “Clever girl.”

“Yes,” Ciri giggles.

* * *

Jaskier is walking with Pavetta in the castle gardens with Ciri resting on her hips. He hasn’t got the chance to see much of his friend this season so he’s glad for her company. The flower beds are empty, Jaskier remembers seeing them in full bloom at her betrothal banquet and wishes Witchers hunted in the winter instead of summer so he could see the gardens at their best.

Evergreen trees and bushes still line the pathways and bring some colour to the white expanse of snow that has covered everything else. Pavetta puts Ciri down in the snow when they reach a field full of the stuff.

Ciri instantly starts playing in the snow and stumbling in different directions to pile as much snow as she can into one giant heap.

“Gods, the last time I was here she could barely even walk and talk and now this.”

Pavetta smiles proudly, “And she’s been a terror ever since.”

Ciri seems to realise that they are talking about her, she walks up to her mother and tugs on her dress to beckon her over. Pavetta joins Ciri by her snow heap and gently sits down next to her daughter, her face pinching at the cold. Jaskier can barely suppress his laughter. Ciri then comes back over to Jaskier and tugs on his trousers, too. “Jas,” she tugs harder.

Jaskier goes willingly and lies down in the snow beside Pavetta who quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Come lie down, Ciri, a little away from me.”

Ciri looks confused and copies him, “Why?”

Jaskier moves his arms up and down, he doesn’t care about the cold and wet seeping through his clothes or that it's ruining his coat. “It’s a snow angel.” He stands up carefully and jumps away from his creation.

Ciri needs no further prompting and makes her own, much smaller, snow angel. It delights her so much she demands they make more and soon the entire field is covered in snow angels, Pavetta’s laughter ringing out through the gardens.

* * *

_He’s walking into a castle, a very grand one but he doesn’t recognise it. He walks through with purpose but doesn’t know where he is going. He arrives in a hall lined with chandeliers and courtiers. At the end of a hall is a man and a woman, the King and Queen his mind supplies. Behind them a man his age. All of them are looking at him with disgust._

_He’s at the coast. His fingers are dancing through the sand. They look old and wrinkled. The ocean crashes loudly onto shore._

_He’s in a cave. Filavandrel is there. Why is Filavandrel here? Oh, he’s in Posada. But Geralt is not here, neither is the other elf or the sylvan. There are other elves, children. There’s so many of them, he’s never seen this many elves before. They were practically extinct._

_He’s in the street. It’s dark and the only light comes from the burning buildings. The same man who stood behind the King and Queen is there. The man's sword slices his stomach and the agony is overwhelming_

He jolts awake, a scream caught in his throat. He pants as his senses come back to him and he finds himself in his room in Cintra, where he is supposed to be. He relaxes into the now sweaty sheets and tries to even out his breathing.

Jaskier is used to these strange dreams by now, he has been plagued with them his whole life, after all. But they were never that bad. When he calms down he hears screaming coming from the floor below. It was a wonder he hadn’t noticed before.

They are incredibly loud. The screams are high pitched and wailing and coming from the room directly below him. It must be Ciri.

Without thinking he goes to see what the fuss is about. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s stopped one of her tantrums and he used to sing her to sleep when she was a baby. The hallway is deserted and the screaming only got louder and louder.

Jaskier grimaces against the sound and opens the door without knocking. In the centre of the room stands Pavetta holding a screaming Ciri in her arms, trying and failing to calm her down. Duny is still on the bed, curled into a corner and pressing his hands against his ears to block out the splitting noise.

But that’s not the shocking part.

The shocking part is all the objects in the room floating above the ground and the wind that’s starting to circle the room.

Ciri is still screaming. Jaskier doesn’t think she’s even taken a breath since it all started. Pavetta has a fearful look in her eyes that he’s never seen before. Even at her betrothal banquet she had been distraught and angry, but this is fear.

Jaskier steps forward tentatively, forcing his body closer to the toddler against the magic. He silently asks Pavetta for permission to take Ciri and she lets him.

The girl keeps screaming but Jaskier can barely hear it now. Instead, he sings. A quiet tune right into her ear and he rocks her gently in his arms.

_I weigh heavy on your conscience  
And time is of the essence now  
So play it right_

_Oh when you're_ _all done_ _  
Are you_ _sailing off_ _to see the sun  
Or _ _left behind us?_

_And I could be your saviour  
What would you become  
And sometimes you might waver  
While reaching number one_

_When you the feel the pressure_

_W_ _eighing on your soul  
I'll be there to help fill the page with gold  
Offer you to measure where you set your sights  
Feel a sense of leisure  
Oh play it right_

_Draw me a pretty little picture  
And tell me what the story is  
Your future's bright  
_ _So,_ _play it right_   
  


Ciri quietens in his arms as he sings. The wind circling the room dissipates and the floating objects all crash to the ground. She falls asleep on his shoulder the second she lets go of the chaos and looks every bit the peaceful child, as if she hadn’t nearly ripped apart the room.

Duny finally unravels and looks at Ciri with an unreadable expression on his face. Pavetta only has fear, not fear of her daughter, Jaskier realises, but what it means for her.

“Please,” Pavetta begs, “Don’t tell my mother.”

“I won’t,” Jaskier assures. “Why did she start screaming?”

The fear leaves Pavetta’s eyes and she looks helpless, “She was having a bad dream.”

* * *

When he finds Geralt in spring he doesn’t know what to say.

He waits in apprehension for him to ask why he has found him nowhere near Oxenfurt but the question never comes. Geralt does ask him how his winter was and Jaskier struggles to answer. How can he make up an entire mundane winter teaching music after everything that had happened with Ciri?

Jaskier makes up a story as he goes along about idiot professors in the department and needy students asking for all his stories. The only indication Geralt gives that he’s listening is occasional hums. For once in his life, Jaskier hopes he isn’t.

He’s dying to talk to him about Ciri. His child surprise is so powerful and adorable and if only Geralt could meet her than he would love her. But he knows Geralt is too stubborn for all of that.

* * *

Jaskier relaxes into their usual routine. Before he knows it it’s the height of summer and he has a dozen new songs about the White Wolf. It’s a blessed evening where they have a room booked and he can have a real mattress.

Unfortunately, there’s only one room left. And only one bed in that room.

“You can have the bed,” Geralt says settling onto the floor.

Jaskier scoffs as he strips down to his small clothes, “Nonsense, it’s been a month since either of us have slept on a bed. We can share, I’m happy to.”

Geralt looks at him uncertainly, not moving from his spot on the floor. Jaskier gets into bed and slides under the covers and a satisfied moan escapes his lips at the softness. “Seriously, I don’t mind if you join me.” He faces away from Geralt and purposefully leaves enough space on the other side of the bed for him.

After a long painful minute, he feels the bed dip and the warmth of Geralt against his back. Geralt is lying straight on his back and isn’t moving an inch. Jaskier shuffles to get comfy, and if he rubs against Geralt in the process then who can blame him. He thinks he imagines the soft gasp of air behind him at the action.

Jaskier is nearly asleep when Geralt finally relaxes and shifts into a comfier position. It’s not hard to fall asleep on the comfy bed with Geralt’s body heat seeping into his back.

When he wakes up there’s an arm slung over his waist and he can feel Geralt’s breath on the back of his neck. His heart races and heat rushes through his body. He tries his best not to move or change his breathing. Jaskier wants to imprint this moment in his memory forever.

He accidentally moves when he instinctively itches his face. He freezes, sure that Geralt will wake up now and he has no clue what’s going to happen when that does.

Thankfully, he doesn’t wake up. Geralt’s arm tightens around him and pulls him even closer to him, he grunts softly and nuzzles into the back of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier can’t help the smile that’s stretching against his face, he had no idea that Geralt liked to cuddle and he wishes he could use this information in the future. But he won’t.

Carefully, he relaxes and wiggles and settles comfortably into Geralt’s arms. It feels so right. His heart doesn’t calm down but his eyes drift closed and, even if it’s well into the morning, he falls asleep again.

The next time he wakes up Geralt is gone and he can’t help the bitter disappointment. Geralt’s belongings are still in the room and he’s just thankful that their accidental spooning session hadn’t sent him running for the hills.

He’s halfway dressed when Geralt comes back to the room, “I’ve ordered us some breakfast, I’m sat at the back table.”

Geralt stands awkwardly in the doorway, avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. Jaskier can guess as to why, but if he doesn’t want to say anything that Jaskier won’t. Geralt doesn’t even know he knows what happened.

“Right, thanks. I’ll be there in a minute,” he says as normally as possible.

Geralt clears his throat, looks like he might say something and decides against it, then leaves. Jaskier sighs heavily, the memory of Geralt’s strong arm around him makes his skin tingle but he composes himself. It will be his little secret, even if Geralt never even admits that they’re friends, at least he will have that memory.

It’s nearly the end of summer, the days are long and hot and languid as all the heat rushes to fill the Continent before the cold autumn settles in. Jaskier hastily puts on his thinnest doublet in preparation for the long day of walking ahead and makes his way downstairs.

Geralt is already sat at a table, Jaskier joins him launching into idle chatter to stave off an awkward silence while they eat. He can’t help but overhear the conversations of others, a habit he’s always had in search of a good story.

“Tragedy,” a man says at a table almost out of earshot, “Terrible.”

The man sat across from him nods, “Aye, makes you realise these royals aren’t so untouchable, eh?”

That piques Jaskier’s interest and he turns his head to listen more closely, not caring if he’s being obvious.

The first man laughs, “Queen Calanthe’s still untouchable, even with no heir now. If anything, she’ll be even more ruthless.”

Jaskier’s blood runs cold. No heir? Surely Pavetta and Ciri weren’t…

“You’re right. A nasty way to go for a princess.”

He can’t breathe. All he can think about is Pavetta and Ciri and his heart wants to break. It can’t be true. It can’t be.

Jaskier looks at Geralt who is looking at him with a strange face, “I have to go.”

“Okay?” Geralt draws out in a confused tone.

Jaskier stands, “I doubt I’ll see you before winter sets in. I’ll find you in spring, yeah?”

Geralt frowns deeply, “What? Where are you going? What’s wrong?”

If it were any other day Jaskier would be revelling in Geralt’s concern but right now all he can think about is getting to Cintra as fast as possible. “I have to go,” he repeats and rushes out of the tavern ignoring Geralt’s call of his name.

He’s left his stuff in their room but he doesn’t care, he has his lute which is all he needs. Jaskier hurries to the stables and is thankful to find several other horses beside Roach.

“Don’t judge me,” he says to her quietly, quickly patting her goodbye. He unties a random horse and rides off before anyone can see or stop him. He feels a small amount of guilt at stealing some poor person’s horse but it’s nothing in comparison to the overwhelming grief crushing him.

He rides fast and hard until his horse has to stop and then when his horse is ready to ride again he sets off at the same brutal pace. It takes too long to get to Cintra, two days at least but it all blurs together. When he arrives at the castle he looks like as much of a mess as he feels.

The guards recognise him and let him in without fuss and now he’s here he doesn’t know what to do. He wanders through the castle halls and the mournful atmosphere is almost enough to confirm everything he had been praying wasn’t true.

“Jaskier?”

“Mousesack,” Jaskier welcomes the familiar face but there are no smiles. “Is it true?”

Mousesack looks away from him and nods, Jaskier’s heart breaks. “No,” his eyes fill with tears and he has to support himself on the wall beside him. “What happened?” his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Pavetta and Duny were coming back from an overseas visit, a storm sunk their ship.”

Jaskier’s throat is tight and he wants to scream. Pavetta, lovely Pavetta and one of his closest friends were gone forever. Just like that.

“Ciri?”

“She’s alive, she’s here,” Mousesack assures.

It’s a small comfort but for Jaskier it’s everything. His grief alleviates a minuscule amount. He curses all the gods there ever were for letting Pavetta die and then thanks them for letting Ciri live. “Can I see her?”

Mousesack looks hesitant, “I’m not sure that would be best. The Queen has become very protective of her.”

“I would never harm her,” Jaskier is offended anyone could think him possible of hurting Ciri, “Please, I need to see her.”

Mousesack regards him for a long time and then concedes, “Very well. But be aware the Queen may kick you out of the castle.” They arrive outside Ciri’s chambers and Mousesack places a hand on his chest to stop him going in, “The girl has been different since she found out. Quiet, detached.”

Jaskier nods, “Thank you for letting me see her.”

When he opens the door he doesn’t see her at first. There are no maids, there’s no Pavetta or Duny playing with her. Ciri isn’t on the floor playing with her toys or running around the room. He spots her finally, silently tucked up in bed.

Quietly he steps towards the bed, not wanting to wake her, but when he gets closer he can see her eyes are wide open.

“Ciri?”

“Go away,” her small voice rings out clearly.

“Ciri, it’s me, Jaskier.”

Her eyes slide over to him and for second Jaskier thinks she doesn’t recognise him. Then she whispers, “Jas?”

He nods and she sits up, tentatively he walks over to her and sits next to her on the bed. She looks so tiny, smaller than she ever has before. There’s no big personality just the sadness weighing down her body.

“I’m here, sweet thing,” he tucks her hair behind her ear. Her hair is messy and knotted, from what he can tell the girl hasn’t let anyone close to her in days.

She reaches out and puts her hand on his hand and then his arm, “You’re really here?” her eyes start to well up with tears, “You’re not a ghost?”

“No,” he shakes his head and wipes away a tear that runs down her cheek. “I’m here.”

Ciri launches herself into his arms and he holds her tight. She cries loud and hard against his chest and he can’t help crying either. All the grief he has felt coming to the surface, he holds Ciri tighter as they mourn together. The presence of Pavetta hangs over the room and he wishes there was anything he could do to bring her back.

When they’ve both run themselves dry she looks up at him, “You’re not leaving, too, are you?”

“No, dear heart,” he kisses the top of her head, “I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

He stays in Cintra until the end of summer and winter too. Pavetta's room is silent and left perfectly in place. He can't help but find himself in the room wishing any second she would walk in. 

From the minor displacements to the room he suspects Calanthe does the same thing. He can hear her wailing with grief at night. He's sure his grief is nothing in comparison to a mother's; with how broken he feels he can only imagine how hurt she must be. 

Pavetta's dresser holds a jewellery box, inside he finds a green emerald ring she had loved to wear. Jaskier takes it from the box; he knows he shouldn't but he feels better with a bit of Pavetta with him.

* * *

“You promised,” Ciri screams, clinging to his sleeve, “You promised you wouldn’t leave.”

“I’ll come back, I swear,” Jaskier tries to soothe her but her face turns redder.

“You’re lying,” she shakes her head and her neatly pinned back hair begins to fly free.

Jaskier kneels and sets his hand on her shoulders, “You have to let people go.” He wipes at her tears, “You can’t force them to stay. You have to trust that they’ll come back.”

“No, you’re gonna leave me again,” she sniffles.

“My dear Ciri, I wish I could stay. I’ll be back in winter. Just you wait.”

“Promise?”

“With all my heart,” he places his hand on his chest. Then he slips his hand into his pocket and fiddles with Pavetta’s ring before handing it to her. Ciri needs it more than he does. “This was your mother’s. She’ll always be with you, even if they aren’t there physically. As long as you live and remember them, they will be.”

Jaskier brings her close and hugs her tight, then leaves Cintra to find Geralt.

* * *

Geralt finds him first. He’s playing in a tavern when the Witcher walks in and Jaskier is sure he sees relief cross his face. When the set is finished he walks over, determined not to acknowledge the parting he had left with.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says lowly and Jaskier missed his name on his lips. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Jaskier cracks a grin, “Nonsense, you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Geralt’s shoulders relax, although if Jaskier didn’t know him so well he’d miss it. He feels guilty at leaving so suddenly without reason but he had been full of grief. He still is if he thinks about Pavetta for too long.

* * *

_He’s in a forest and he can barely see in front of him. He swallows, all of his senses heightened and screaming danger. Something lunges at him and he swings an arm out to hit it. He’s holding a sword and the creature falls to the ground. There’s more of them coming at him. He doesn’t run like he wants to; he fights, cutting them down one by one. Geralt is there fighting them just the same._

_The fight is over and Geralt is checking him over for injuries. Patting his body with firm and frantic touches. Jaskier looks around and the creatures are gone, so are their swords. Instead, there’s a campfire. Geralt is still touching him, “I thought you were dead,” he chokes._

_“I thought you were dead,” he responds against his own volition._

_Geralt kisses him. It feels different than the usual fantasies. It feels real. Gods, he wishes it was real._

_He pulls away and opens his eyes. They’re in a bedroom and Geralt is underneath him. “You could stay, just for one year.” He kisses him again and Geralt flips them._

_He doesn’t land on the mattress but on the rough ground. Geralt is no longer with him. Another man is there, dressed in armour and the street is ablaze around them. The man slices his sword through his side._

Jaskier jolts awake, the rage of the man’s eyes still embedded in his brain and his side burning with faux pain. He finds Geralt’s eyes across the camp and lets the sight ground him back in reality. He rubs his side, he had felt the pain of the sword so clearly. He remembers the Geralt in his dreams kisses and ducks his head to hide the blush.

“You okay?” Geralt asks and Jaskier nods.

His heart is still racing and he hugs his knees to his chest. He watches the fire and tries to run over the dream but the images already seem to be fading. He had suffered from these dreams his whole life, whether they were frightening or not he would always wake as if they had been. And when he wakes the details always fade fast.

“Wanna talk about it?” Geralt offers and Jaskier can’t hide his surprise.

Butterflies fill his stomach at the concern in his voice and he finds himself telling him about the dreams. How they feel off and how Geralt is in them sometimes. He doesn’t tell him that Geralt kisses him in the dreams; that isn’t what makes the dreams strange, he has plenty of those dreams without the feeling that something was wrong.

“Let’s not dwell on it,” he smiles, shaking off the last of the lingering adrenaline.

* * *

The Countess is stunningly beautiful. After his performance, she invites him to sit with her and he won’t say no. He’s only slept with a handful of people since he realised he was in love with Geralt and the Countess is hard to resist.

She gives him her full attention and makes no effort to hide her feelings for him. And he’s a little touch starved and a lot pining and desperate for romantic affection. She’s infatuating and he returns night after night to her.

He thinks it might be possible to pry his heart out of Geralt’s hands and give it to her. And while it might be possible he’s not sure he wants to.

While the romantic in him is spinning a constant stream of poems in her honour the logical part of him knows she doesn’t love him. She never says she does. Even if she doesn’t hide her desire or affection for him, he knows that she isn’t in love with him.

To her, he is a fleeting interest. A passing plaything in her life.

That doesn’t mean he won’t soak up anything she gives him.

He’s found Geralt at the tavern and is gushing about her. Perhaps if he says it out loud he can convince himself it’s all true. Geralt spends a very long time getting a drink at the bar and then comes back smelling more significantly of alcohol than before.

“Are you playing tonight?”

“Yes, not here of course,” he tries to cajole Geralt into joining him at the Countess’ house but he’s too stubborn. So, he turns his talk back to her, “I must say, my friend, that she is mine alone.”

“I’m not your friend.”

Jaskier clenches his teeth slightly to shove down the hurt. If Geralt told him to stay and not to play for her he would do so in a heartbeat. But as always, his absence has not gone amiss.

“Sure,” he shakes his head, the fondness in his voice hiding the pain in his heart.

Jaskier returns to the Countess that night. He wishes that Geralt had been the one to ask him to sing and was the one to kiss him softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope that answers a few questions some of you had last chapter! the songs are She - Dodie and Play It Right - Kawala
> 
> thank you to everyone who's been reviewing I love all of you!! let me know what you thought of this chapter <3


	15. he is always found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've said this before but this was actually the hardest chapter to write, oh boy. there is very little comfort in this chapter I gotta say, but it's a little shorter this time around at 9k! hope you enjoy <3

Jaskier is still talking about that goddamn Countess. Jaskier had actually left him for the Countess. They left that wretched group of villages and within a week the Countess had sent a messenger asking for Jaskier, who went without complaint.

That had been at the end of summer. Jaskier never found him in autumn and winter came and went. Geralt can only assume he spent that time with her.

Spring had passed with no sign of the bard, either. Summer was licking its way into the continent now. Geralt hasn’t gotten any sleep for months.

There are plenty of things that are bothering him. Thoughts of his Child Surprise, they must be five or six years old by now. That’s the age all Witchers to be are claimed by the Law of Surprise and are brought to Kaer Morhen. If the castle still stood and the knowledge hadn’t been lost, Geralt would have been expected to take Cintra’s young prince and present him for the trails. He wonders if he would have ignored his responsibility then, too. He likes the think that he would have.

That’s not the only thing troubling him. His mind won’t stop thinking about Jaskier and the Countess. All winter it had occupied his mind. He knows what Jaskier looks like intimately and that information works against him to create images he hates.

Geralt wonders if this will be what finally causes Jaskier to leave him alone. He should be happy with the turn of events. He’s not.

This is the first time he’s seen Jaskier since last year and while that usually came with a sense of comfort it only makes him feel worse. He needs to find this djinn. He just wants to get some sleep. He just wants to stop being haunted by thoughts of Jaskier, thoughts of Julian and Renfri, thoughts of his Child Surprise.

The last thing he wants to see right now is Jaskier, looking dishevelled and smelling faintly of perfume.

“-has left me. Again. Rather unexpectedly, I might add.”

Geralt feels a spark of joy at the news.

“Did you sing to her before she left?” He throws the net into the lake with more force, in all these long months of not sleeping at least he hadn’t had to endure Jaskier here and talking about the woman.

“Yes, I did. Why, what are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, we are so having this conversation. Go on, Geralt. How’s my singing?”

“It’s like ordering a pie and finding out it has no filling,” he’s bitter and the words are harsh. He doesn’t mean them, he loves Jaskier’s singing and always has, but he wants him to hurt. Wants him to hurt just the tiniest fragment of how he’s been hurting since last summer.

It does the trick. Jaskier is yelling and before his mind can catch up, he’s found the djinn and it’s been released. Jaskier is using up all the wishes and asking for the Countess back and Geralt can’t take it anymore.

“I just want some damn peace!”

And then Jaskier can’t speak. And he’s coughing up blood.

Panic floods Geralt’s mind. Any pain or hurt leaves his mind and he’s at Jaskier’s side in a second. It’s clear that whatever is happening to him is the djinn’s work. Jaskier is dying because of him, again.

Geralt hauls him up and onto Roach. He doesn’t have time to pack up the camp he had made by the lakeside, he just urges her to go and they’re running to the nearest settlement. Any resentment he had felt at Jaskier’s sudden presence vanishes. He can’t let him die, not again, not now.

It’s been years since he felt Jaskier on Roach behind him and any pleasant feelings that brings are squashed by the gurgling sounds of blood being coughed up. Geralt speeds up Roach pushing her as fast as she can go.

There’s an elf healer and, as far as Geralt is concerned, he’s useless. He can’t save Jaskier, can only give him something to slow it down.

“Like rubbing salve on a tumour?”

“Fuck, Geralt.”

And god if _that_ didn’t bring back sinful memories. Geralt awkwardly pats Jaskier’s shoulder, now is definitely not the time to be thinking about that sort of thing.

“We won’t let that happen,” he says and he means it. He won’t let Jaskier die because of his carelessness yet again. They weren’t even together this time and he was already ruining his life.

They ride to the mayor’s house. It’s already gone dark by the time they reach it and time is running out. Geralt tries to ignore Jaskier’s wheezing in his ear. It’s like whatever illness struck Buttercup except it’s so fast. Whatever the price the mage demands he will pay it, even if it’s his own life in exchange.

Geralt has never considered killing someone quite as much as the guard who refuses him entry. He can hear Jaskier’s breathing growing shallower by the second. Killing the man would take too long, so he knocks him out instead.

He hops off Roach and hauls Jaskier down. His throat has doubled in size. Geralt lifts him and brings him into the house; inside he can feel the brimming of chaos, it assures him that this mage will definitely be able to help.

Geralt sets Jaskier down on a table and comes face to face with the naked mayor. “Is there a mage who lives here?”

“Ah, the apple juice. She wants some. And she always gets what she wants,” the mayor says and Geralt hopes that he is drugged and not always like this.

“I don’t understand, does he want me to bring him apple juice?” he asks Jaskier. The bard was usually the one who dealt with the talking and Geralt would really appreciate his help right now.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier rasps.

They look at the mayor again but he has fallen asleep. Geralt sighs, hoisting Jaskier back onto his shoulder and grabbing the juice. He walks the hallways until he finds a thick fog covering the floor; the mage must be close.

He opens the door the fog is coming from and blanches at the sight inside. A massive orgy. Geralt grimaces at the sight but locks on the mage sat at the front of the room watching the spectacle.

Halfway towards her, he realises she may not appreciate his interruption and puts Jaskier down in case she decides to try anything. Geralt pointedly ignores the plethora of naked people and stands in front of her, “I brought you apple juice.”

“And quite a bit more.”

She circles him, fascinated by the fact that he’s a Witcher. He’s not used to people being intrigued by him; Jaskier was one of the few people who had never smelt of fear.

“Please, Jaskier here needs immediate attention. He was attacked by a djinn,” he shows her the shattered bottle, “Fix it and I’ll pay you, whatever the price.” He hopes she doesn’t ask for his life, but if it meant Jaskier’s he would give it without a second thought.

“You’ll have to do better than juice. Ragamuffin!”

The spell breaks and the people hastily try to cover themselves. Geralt pushes them aside to get to Jaskier, he’s lying on the floor now that no one is holding him up. He looks pale and more blood has spluttered down his front. He lifts him and Jaskier only manages a weak groan.

He follows Yennefer to a bedroom and puts Jaskier on the bed. She mutters a few incantations and his eyes slide shut. Geralt pulls off Jaskier's doublet and boots so that he’ll be comfortable and gently lays him down.

“I don’t have all day,” she says, pushing him aside. She hovers her hands over Jaskier and speaks lowly in Elder.

Geralt waits by the foot of the bed watching her every move. She won’t gain anything from killing Jaskier but he still panics at his life being in the hands of a stranger. Although, when Jaskier’s life was in his own hands he always found a way to end it. If he’d never gone looking for a djinn this wouldn’t have happened.

Slowly, the swelling around his neck decreases and he breathes easier. Then, finally, he looks as though he is only sleeping. Yennefer keeps her hands over him, “Are you satisfied yet? Now leave me be, I need to concentrate for the next part.”

He doesn’t want to leave the room but he figures he has no choice, so leaves. Yennefer finds him awhile later in the kitchen where he’s been raiding the pantry, he doesn’t think the mayor will notice.

“He’s in a deep healing sleep.”

“How long will he sleep for?”

“Long enough for you to bathe.”

* * *

Despite loving Jaskier, he is very aware that this time his romantic feelings are very much unrequited. So, there’s no harm in taking fancy in others. Such as Yennefer.

Yennefer is beautiful and powerful and one of the few people he has met who isn’t scared of him. He might be scared of her, in fact, because right now she holds Jaskier’s life in her hands and she can do what she wants with it.

She circles the room as he bathes and Geralt is surprised by how comfortable he is with her. They flirt and she pushes away the mirror so he only catches a glimpse of her as she undresses and joins him in the water.

It’s only attraction. She’s beautiful and smart and the first person to pay this kind of interest in him in decades.

It’s easy to forget about the hurt in his heart. It’s easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of her. She makes him feel like chaos, swirling up and being pulled into whatever she wants to use him for.

“Happy childhoods make for dull company,” she says as she sits behind him in the bath.

“Judging by your wrists and your wits, your childhood was very happy,” Geralt realises that for all her beauty, Yennefer is just as hurt as he is. They both carry lifetimes of pain within them. If anyone could ever understand the burden of carrying that much pain for that long, it would be her.

A mage as powerful as her would never love a Witcher, though. Not someone so powerful and beautiful. Someone like that would never love him. Besides, Yennefer would never follow him on the Path and he wasn’t going to leave it for her.

Then she says she considers their conversation payment enough. He quickly leaves, anxious to see Jaskier now and take him far away from Rinde. The clothes she provided are tight but he puts them over his still wet skin in his hurry.

Back in the bedroom, Jaskier lays still. Blood is dried on his mouth and his chest and he looks so much like Buttercup when he had passed. If it weren’t for the gentle rise and fall of his chest it would nearly be a mirror image.

Yennefer had saved his life. Geralt had nearly doomed it once again, if it weren’t for her. He owes her more than she knows.

“Do you doubt my capabilities?” she asks from the doorway.

“No, just your intentions,” the price of saving a life was only a conversation, he worries that she might have some cruel trick up her sleeve and Jaskier will lose his life after all. The last thing he had said to Jaskier was insulting his singing.

“I said some things to him,” he admits, trying to explain why he so desperately needs him to live, “He’s a,” he trails off, he really doesn’t have the words to describe Jaskier. How is he meant to sum up how he feels about him? His love for Jaskier is two hundred years deep.

“A friend?” Yennefer supplies.

“Hmm.” It’s not good enough. Doesn’t encompass everything Jaskier was and is and what he wishes he could be. “I’d like it not to be the last thing he remembers.”

Yennefer assures him he’ll live and he tears his eyes away. There’s a drawing on the floor, the djinn’s seal. Of course, she wants the djinn, that’s why she had saved Jaskier and kept them here. He’s not going to let Jaskier die because of her.

“I’ll be taking Jaskier now.”

“If you move him the healing spell won’t take.”

He growls, forced to leave Jaskier at her mercy. Yennefer walks over to him and the scent of lilac and gooseberries overwhelms him, she presses a kiss to his lips that sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine. His vision blurs and he manages to catch one last look at Jaskier before he blacks out.

* * *

When he wakes, he is in a prison cell. It doesn’t take long to connect the dots. Yennefer had used him for her own ends, he can only hope that she hasn’t demanded Jaskier’s life in her hunger for power.

The guard taunts him and Geralt knows there’s no way he or the elf are escaping this. It wasn’t the death he had ever expected for himself but he resigns himself to it. In the course of one day he’d delivered Jaskier into the hands of death twice. Everyone will be safer once he’s dead.

“Last words, Witcher. Make them good?”

“I want you to burst, you son of a whore.” The man does, in fact, burst.

The djinn. It’s him who controls it. It was him who had asked for peace and plunged Jaskier into a painful death.

Of course, it was. That’s what he always did to him.

* * *

“Oh, Geralt, thank the gods. I might live to see another day. We need to go,” Jaskier comes striding out of the manor when Geralt arrives. The tension in his shoulders drops and he’s more than willing to leave Rinde as fast as possible.

“Jaskier, you’re okay,” Geralt even lets himself smile at the sight.

“I’m glad to hear you give a monkeys about it.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he teases. “What happened?”

Jaskier relays his apparent dreams, the orgy and Yennefer. Geralt remembers the djinn seal painted on the floor and realises Yennefer will die trying to harness the power of the djinn.

She may have undone sixteen years of work repairing his reputation by turning him into the Butcher again, but she had saved Jaskier. He was alive because of her and he was indebted to her. He needs to save her life.

He turns directions and heads back into the mansion he’d rather leave behind. Jaskier chases after him and he and the elf plead with him to stop. “Please don’t tell me this is finally the moment you’ve finally decided to care about someone other than yourself.”

Geralt swallows, he’s spent his whole life caring for Jaskier and only one person has managed to keep him alive. “She saved your life, Jaskeir, I can’t let her die.”

* * *

Yennefer is screaming in pain trying to contain the djinn. He can barely move against the power of magic flying through the room. Like Pavetta’s betrothal all over again but this time he can’t stop it.

He needs to make a wish. His last wish.

Geralt thinks of Jaskier and how over and over again he has caused him to die. No matter what he does Jaskier will always die by his hands. Maybe that’s Geralt’s destiny, fate’s cruel way of making up for all the wrongs he has done.

He looks at Yennefer screaming with rage and fighting the djinn’s magic. She looks indestructible.

_Bind my destiny to hers, instead of his_.

The djinn is gone and the house is collapsing. Yennefer portals them to safety and they are pressed flush against each other. He feels relief that they are both alive, relief that he will no longer cause Jaskier harm.

He doesn’t see Jaskier in the window. He only sees Yennefer and can only fool himself into believing this is the right thing.

* * *

Geralt wakes up feeling well rested for the first time in years. His muscles ache at lying on rubble for god knows how many hours but for once he feels good. Yennefer is gone and the space beside him is cold. It’s daylight outside but as he makes his way outside, he realises it’s the morning of the next day.

Jaskier is nowhere to be seen either. Roach is still tied in the stables where he left her and he mounts her. He considers finding Jaskier in town but after his slaughter the previous day he doubts showing his face will be the best.

He sets off for the river, hoping the camping gear he had left in his hurry to get Jaskier to safety hasn’t been stolen. He’s bound to run into the bard sooner or later anyway.

Geralt stills. What if he didn’t see Jaskier again? He had tied himself to Yennefer instead of him. Maybe whatever had been bringing their paths together all these years was finally undone.

The thought sits uneasily in his stomach.

He lingers around Rinde for a few days. Jaskier can’t have gotten far. Except, Jaskier doesn’t find him and Geralt hears nothing about a bard anywhere near.

The rest of summer drags and Geralt wonders if he made a mistake wishing Jaskier out of his life. It’s nearly autumn when he sees a familiar face. He fills with disappointment when it’s Yennefer who walks into the tavern instead of the bard. Then he decides it’s time he finally got over him.

Yennefer sits with him and charms him with her wits and he decides it would be nice to love her, instead. By all accounts, she’s his perfect match. They both like dry humour, both untrusting of others and holding a world of hurt in their hearts.

It takes less than an hour for them to fall into bed. Even without the adrenaline of a fight running through their veins, it’s electric. She’s the first person he’s slept with in years who he hasn’t paid for. Each touch, caress and kiss comes free and because she wants to.

Geralt is desperate for that intimacy. He loves her. He must do. Because whenever he sees her, he feels drunk on her affection.

She leaves in the morning before he wakes. The smell of lilac and gooseberries lingers behind her and he holds her pillow close until it dissipates. She won’t let him hold her, even at night she prefers to lay propped on one arm beside him rather than rest in his arms. Her walls may be higher than his are.

They run into each other every few months, her perfume fills his senses and he becomes lost in her over and over.

At night, he still dreams of blue eyes.

* * *

“Did you piss off your bard?” is the first thing Lambert says to him when he arrives at Kaer Morhen.

“What?”

Lambert has his arms folded and eyes narrowed, “What did you do?”

Geralt honestly has no clue what he’s on about, “What do you mean? I’ve not seen him in months.”

“Well, he’s stopped singing about Witchers,” Lambert tuts, “So people are starting to be rude again.”

“Did they ever stop?” Geralt scoffs.

“Yes,” Lambert looks over to Eskel who is sat at the dining table with his feet propped up.

Eskel nods in agreement, “They did get nicer for a bit. The past decade I’ve been chased out of towns and refused service half as much as I used to. Until this year.”

Geralt had noticed people were more receptive to him with Jaskier around but he had assumed most of that was having the bard be at his side. Humans had always been nicer when he travelled with him in past lives. The songs about Witchers had helped even more but he had never thought it would have improved the reception of his brothers, too.

“Yeah, so what did you to do him?”

“Nothing,” Geralt holds up his hands in defence. “I swear. I’ve not seen him since before Beltane.”

Jaskier had never stopped singing about Witchers in the times they had been parted before, they were all his best songs according to him. Maybe he blamed him for the djinn and had decided to give up on him. Most likely. Geralt’s stomach twists.

Lambert glares, “Well, fix it.”

“Glad to know you missed me.”

Lambert softens, a little, then rolls his eyes and throws his arm around Geralt to lead him to the kitchen. “Course we did.”

* * *

“Fancy seeing you here,” Yennefer’s voice whispers in his ear as she drops next to him at the camp he’s set up for himself.

He smiles at her sudden appearance, “Where did you come from?”

She smirks, “Felt like some company. And I’ve sorely missed yours.” Geralt hums and her hands brush over his as she takes the piece of wood he’s been witling. “What’s this? A flower?”

“A buttercup.”

Yennefer laughs but hands him back the wood so he can continue, “Charming. Didn’t take you for the type to have a soft side?”

He quirks an eyebrow because surely she’s seen his softer side plenty of times by now. “What do you really want, Yen?”

“I heard you were hunting a griffin. I need some of the parts for an elixir I’m working on.”

“Ah, so you didn’t miss me.”

“I did,” she leans closer to him and places a gentle kiss to his cheek and his senses are flooded once more with the scent of her.

Geralt pulls her into his lap and kisses her deeply. Briefly, it feels wrong. She’s too soft, shorter than him and her purple eyes that slip closed are not blue. He loves her, he tells himself, he loves her and only her.

* * *

The market is busy and much too loud for his sensitive hearing. With the herbs he had bought tucked safely away in his pocket he turns to leave as fast as possible and bumps into someone.

“Oh, gods, sorry- oh, Geralt,” it’s Jaskier. He looks surprised to see him and the joy that crosses his face whenever he has seen him in the past is gone. He blinks rapidly, at a loss for words, “W-what brings you here?”

“Contracts.”

“Right, yeah, right. Of course. Well, I won’t bother you, I’ll be on my way,” Jaskier makes to move past him but Geralt finds his hand reaching out to catch his shoulder before he can get too far away. At the very least he can apologise for the djinn.

“Wait,” he keeps his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, afraid he’ll slip away. Jaskier glances down at his hand and he drops it. “Wait, I uh- want an ale?”

Jaskier considers him for a moment and then nods, “Sure.”

The walk to the tavern is awkward and quiet, even Jaskier doesn’t attempt to fill the space with words. Geralt pays for their ales, they sip their drinks and avoid each other’s gaze.

He clears his throat, “Jaskier, I’m sorry.” Jaskier looks at him with a little bit of interest and hope, “For the djinn. For what my wish did to you. I didn’t get a chance to say so in Rinde.”

Jaskier sighs deeply and looks away from him, then looks back at Geralt with a wide smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not to worry about. That witch healed my throat just fine, I’m still the best bard on the Continent.”

Geralt wants to ask why he’s stopped singing about him but he doesn’t.

“Glad I won’t have to see her again, though,” Jaskier shudders, “Very sexy but very insane. You know she threatened to castrate me?”

“Yen’s like that.”

Jaskier pauses, “Yen?”

“Yennefer?”

Jaskier chuckles a humourless laugh, “Oh, yes, I’m well aware of who Yen is. I mean, _Yen?_ As in a nickname?”

Geralt takes a long sip of his drink, “I’ve seen her a few times since Rinde.”

He smells the wave of hurt that comes from Jaskier. He does feel a bit guilty with the information that Yennefer had threatened him but he’s happy with her. “Of course you have,” Jaskier mutters.

“Who’s Valdo Marx?” he asks suddenly to change the topic.

If anything, the smell of hurt gets stronger. “Really? My mortal nemesis? I’ve told you about him plenty of times before, do you even listen to me?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier clenches his jaw, “Well, we went to Oxenfurt together. We were friends until he betrayed me.”

Geralt snorts at the idea that two liberal arts students could betray each other in any way that mattered. “And that’s why you wished he died of apoplexy?”

Jaskier nods seriously, “He stole my song, one of my finest. It was the last song I needed to perform before graduating and he stole it. Then I punched him and got expelled. So, I technically never graduated.”

“Don’t you lecture there every winter?”

Jaskier pauses, “Yes. Do you want to hear the song? The one he stole.”

Geralt nods, it’s been well over a year since he heard Jaskier perform and he’s missed his singing. Even if all his songs are about him which he hates. Though this song was from before Jaskier knew him, so he prepares himself for a swathe of monster inaccuracies.

Jaskier hops to his feet and gathers the attention of the tavern before he begins to sing.

_Am I allowed to look at him like that?_

_Could it be wrong?_

_When he’s just so nice to look at?_

_He smells like lemongrass and sleep_

_He tastes like apple juice and peach_

_Oh, you would find him in an oil painting_

_And he, means everything to me_

Geralt is surprised by the lyrics, a love song the likes of which he hasn’t heard since one of Julian’s compositions. Jaskier closes his eyes as he sings and the love and hurt rings through his voice as clear as day.

_And I’ll be okay_

_Admiring from afar_

_Cause even when he’s next to me_

_We could not be more far apart_

_And he tastes like birthday cake_

_And storytime and fall_

_But to him_

_I taste of nothing at all_

Jaskier’s voice breaks on the bridge along with Geralt’s heart. Whoever had Jaskier’s heart and didn’t reciprocate was a damned fool. His stomach curls with jealousy at Jaskier loving someone else so deeply. That love had once been for him and now never would be.

He didn’t need it anyway, he has Yennefer now.

Jaskier finishes with another round of the chorus, when he finally opens his eyes they are filled with tears. He slaps on a happy smile and leads the tavern into a jig and plays a few more songs before he joins Geralt at the table. None of the songs he sang were about Witchers.

“It’s a good song.”

Jaskier smirks, “I know, that’s why I punched him. And I thought you said my singing was a fillingless pie?”

Geralt winces, “Only the songs about me.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and finally gives him a real smile, small but fond and real. “Those are my best ones.”

“So, I’ve heard.”

Slowly they fall into their old banter and the anxiety he hadn’t realised had become a constant slowly ebbs away. Jaskier joins him when he leaves town and at the next one, he sings about the White Wolf again.

* * *

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier chokes on the sip of ale he just took, eyes locked on something over Geralt’s shoulder.

He turns around and sees Yennefer walking towards them. She sits next to him and lilac and gooseberries instantly fill his senses. He feels like he’s hyper-alert whenever she’s near. Her eyes roam over him and then flick to Jaskier, then back to him

“Funny how we keep crossing paths.”

“It’s a small Continent,” Geralt replies smoothly, smiling a little at seeing her. It’s been the longest he’s gone since running into her.

“Not really,” she challenges. Yennefer then turns her attention back to Jaskier and pins him in place with a single look, “Wouldn’t you say? You’ve been traipsing it for how many decades now? Six?”

“I’m thirty-six,” Jaskier defends.

Yennefer mocks surprise, “Surely not? I can recommend some moisturiser if you want.”

Jaskier glares and Geralt has seen him get into bar fights for less. Instead, he looks at Geralt, “This tavern’s dead, I’ll find another to perform in.” He stands abruptly, his chair scratching loudly against the floor and rushes out of the tavern.

“He’s touchy,” Yennefer remarks, plucking Jaskier’s tankard still full of ale and taking a sip. She grimaces at the taste, her nose scrunching up, “That tastes like piss.”

Geralt laughs, “It does. Maybe you can enchant it to taste better?”

* * *

Whenever they run into Yennefer, it takes over a week after she leaves for things to go back to normal between him and Jaskier. Whilst she’s around the bard avoids them at all costs, and when he doesn't the two of them send constant insults at each other.

Then, she leaves him before he wakes and he’s reminded of the fact that she won’t love him. No matter how much he offers himself to her she only lets him in when it suits her. He could devote himself to her if she would let him.

He won’t deny how his mood turns when she departs without warning. It’s not like the ache of nothingness he had felt after Julian’s death or the times he had lost him in the past. It’s a storm she brews inside him and the world seems to pale in comparison to her vibrancy.

Jaskier insists on being louder and happier after she’s gone than he usually is. Then, when the smell of lilac and gooseberries finally disappears and the world returns to normal, he is hard-pressed to remember why he had allowed himself to lose his senses in her.

They return to normalcy, travelling and hunting and Jaskier composing song after song. Jaskier who gives him easy affection and patches up his wounds. Having Jaskier by his side is an indulgence he shouldn’t have on the Path but is grateful for all the same, for he knows it won’t last.

* * *

The next year spring thaws the snow and Geralt is the first one to leave Kaer Morhen. He’s eager to get back on the Path and find Jaskier. No, he’s eager to find Yennefer. Yennefer.

Still, when spring is at its height, he can’t help but listen for the bard. There’s no word of him and then summer comes and goes. He fears that he’s managed to end up dead, but people still greet him with the moniker White Wolf so he must be singing about him somewhere.

He runs into Yennefer a few more times and she lifts him up only to send him crashing back into the dull reality of his life.

Summer passes and autumn, too. He doesn’t see Jaskier all year. When he trudges back to Kaer Morhen he even stops by Oxenfurt but they’ve heard nothing from him.

* * *

“Where were you? Last summer?” he demands when he runs into Jaskier in late spring.

“Why? Do you care?” Geralt sends him and pointed look and Jaskeir rolls his eyes. “If you must know I was visiting family.”

Geralt blanches, “Lettenhove?” He knew Jaskier was a viscount, and in all the things he had thought would take him from his side – be it death or another lover – he hadn’t thought it would be a title.

Jaskier runs his hand over the back of his head, “Uh, yeah. I ended up staying longer than I meant to when I went there.”

“Oh,” Geralt stops them at a clearing and begins to set up a fire. “Do you miss them?” he asks quietly, not sure he wants to hear the answer.

“Yeah,” Jaskier nods, absently plucking at his lute. “I don’t get to see them a lot.”

He feels a shot of guilt at keeping Jaskier away from his family. He travelled with him all summer and Jaskier spent his winters at Oxenfurt. He doesn’t know when he even gets the chance to visit them. Even if he wasn’t killing him this time, he was still ruining his life.

* * *

They’re near to Blaviken. Too near for his liking, which is why he insists on travelling cross country and avoiding all the roads. The rest of the Continent may have slowly accepted him as the White Wolf but Blaviken surely wouldn’t.

Blaviken itself must be less than two miles away. He wonders if Stregobor is still living in Irion’s tower or if the sinister feeling on the air is just in his own head. The faster they make it past the better.

Unfortunately, Jaskier refuses to travel in the dark and makes them stop for camp before dark. They’re in the middle of the forest so he’s sure they’ll be undisturbed.

He sharpens his sword and his eyes are fixed onto Renfri’s brooch. His biggest regret. He’s never told Jaskier what really happened in Blaviken, the bard had never asked. Geralt is sure that if Jaskier knew what he had done to Renfri, then he wouldn’t have been so eager to follow him.

Jaskier must be dying to ask about it now that they’re so close to the town but he doesn’t touch the topic. He still spends the time composing and talking for hours on end. Geralt can’t stand it.

Since he met Yennefer, he’s become painfully aware of Jaskier’s mortality. Around every corner, he sees something that could kill Jaskier or take him away. It’s only a matter of time. He doesn’t even carry a sword. Yennefer was powerful, it made sense that he should love her. So, more so than ever before, he’s been pushing down his feelings for the bard.

Jaskier suddenly announces that he’s going for a walk and disappears into the forest. Geralt stops being able to hear him after a minute and resists the urge to go after him. Just because there weren’t any roads didn’t mean it was safe to stray from camp.

Geralt remembers overhearing a traveller be ambushed by bandits in these parts. Nearly an hour passes and he’s about to gather his swords and go after him when Jaskier comes back to camp.

He looks dishevelled and shaken, “I’m going to bed early. I’ve got an upset stomach.”

Geralt frowns as Jaskier promptly tucks himself into his bedroll. It’s still bright outside and Jaskier is breathing unevenly. The scent coming from him isn’t fear but it’s the opposite of his usual contentment.

He wants to ask what’s wrong but doesn’t.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Jaskier does know when to be quiet.

When he comes back to camp with potions still coursing through his veins, Jaskier needs no prompt to silence himself and help muffle as much noise as possible with pillows. When it’s the end of a long day, he’ll play and sing soft melodies, and if it’s been particularly hard he’ll scribble compositions in his book and remain silent.

He also knows when to be loud.

When they’re in an intolerant town, Jaskier will play loud and fast to collect as much coin as possible before they get kicked out without payment for a hunt. When people start discussing rumours about Witchers at the next table over, Jaskier will talk loudly over them so all Geralt can hear is his commentary on the ale.

Geralt notices the things Jaskier does for him without asking and that’s why he loves him.

No matter how much he tries to move on, to let go, Jaskier pulls him in. He doesn’t have much choice in it. Loving Jaskier is effortless. Yes, he snaps when he’s being annoying and rolls his eyes when he’s arrogant. It’s not easy to not get pissed off at him, but loving him is something he does even in those moments.

It’s as natural as breathing.

He can’t deny it anymore. He’s still at square one knowing that his love doesn’t mean anything. He can’t let himself. But he can’t deny it.

No matter how much he loses himself in Yennefer, he is always found in Jaskier.

Geralt knows it’s wrong to keep seeing Yennefer but he knows it’s safe. While he’s with her he can pretend it’s love and let himself believe for just a moment he is loved. Jaskier is only a friend. Only a travelling companion. He needs Yennefer to be his everything.

* * *

“This woman just murdered that man with her bare hands for trying to steal your horse!”

“Maybe she’ll make a better travelling companion then,” he jokes, only a little serious, as he looks at the old man and two women.

The old man says he’s been looking for him and that’s never a good sign.

* * *

Geralt is too hungry for whatever Borch wants from him as he gushes over his adventures, courtesy of Jaskier’s songs. The man does order them a lot of food and ale which he appreciates.

Borch tells him about the dragon attack and Geralt already knows any chances of a peaceful few days are slim. Dragons are rare, most have died out like Witchers and Borch will only lead them on a fruitless hunt.

“You have the most incredible neck. It’s like a sexy goose. Guzzling”

Geralt can’t help the incredulous look he shoots at the bard. He’s seen him flirt with a great many people and if these are the lines he uses then the Continent must have no sense. Although, he can hardly judge after the bread line that had landed him with a two-decade-long companion.

Borch brings his attention back to him and the challenge the King has set. Jaskier is already agreeing to the mission, but even if there were dragons he isn’t going to kill them. They’re sentient. “With you on my team, dear Witcher, we’ll be unstoppable.”

A fight breaks out amongst the other team of dwarves. “Geralt can handle them in his sleep,” Jaskier says full of confidence. “Or maybe a little bit awake.”

Then there are the Reavers. A group of hardy men with no formal training which made them unpredictable in a fight.

“Come with me. I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

“Where’s the fourth team?”

As if on cue, Yennefer enters the tavern. Jaskier proceeds to vehemently deny the quest he had been practically begging join. “We really can’t get involved. Geralt, shall we?”

Yennefer locks eyes with him and he’s reminded why he decided to love her in the first place. “I’m in.”

* * *

He keeps his eyes on Yennefer as they climb the mountain. Partly because he can’t stand to watch Jaskier flirt so much with Borch’s warriors. Partly because whatever she wants the dragon for he knows she’ll kill Borch without blinking for it and for the duration of his quest the man is under his protection.

“You worry if you blink, you’ll never see her again. You’re in love with her,” Borch notes and Geralt wishes he was right.

A while later Jaskier decides to make a show of fetching some berries, “There’s something back here!”

“Jaskier,” he calls after the bard holding them up, he wants to get this over with as fast as possible.

Jaskier comes running fast towards him and Geralt draws his sword as a creature emerges from the brush. “It’s a hirikka, probably starving. Sheathe your weapons.”

Eyck does not and kills the creature with several blows of his sword. Geralt grimaces and looks away from the sight. The hirikka had posed no threat to them but Yennefer runs to the knight like a worried damsel. Geralt is really sick of this mountain.

* * *

“What are you really doing here?” he asks when he finally has Yennefer alone.

“I’m here for the dragon. There are certain healing properties it’s rumoured to possess.”

“I thought your transformation healed all parts of you?”

“At the cost of losing others, yes.”

Then he remembers that old rumour that dragon hearts cured infertility. She wants to have a child. Geralt realises that even if he loved her and she was fertile he would never be able to give her a baby. He’s infertile the same as her, the one good thing about the trials as far as he is concerned. She must know the same thing; they’re both just using each other as a distraction from what they really want.

* * *

“Yeah, you’re right, this is a shortcut. To death!” Jaskier exclaims, looking pale at the drop. Geralt can’t see the side of the cliff from his position at the back of the group but his heart rate picks up at the prospect of Jaskier falling.

He can smell the thick scent of panic rolling in waves off Jaskier. He wants to reach out and hold him close, tell him it will be okay, but that’s not his job. A friend doesn’t do that. A travelling companion doesn’t do that.

Jaskier steps out onto the planks first, then Yennefer. Geralt follows them and even his stomach flips at the drop below and the harsh wind. Jaskier is too far away for him to catch if anything happens and he can already see it playing in his mind.

He grips the chain tighter and focusses on Yennefer. Yennefer is who he should be worried about; she only smells of fear a little. If she fell, she could portal away, she wouldn’t die so easily. That’s why he bound her to him, that’s why he’s trying so hard to love her like she deserves.

Ahead, a floorboard Jaskier steps on breaks and he lets out a yell as he shoves further into the mountain wall. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat but Jaskier continues on with shaky legs. He should never have trusted those dwarves.

It feels like they’ve been taking the crossing for hours but must only have been minutes when he hears the floorboards crack behind him. He turns around in time to catch the chain Borch is holding.

He won’t let him die, he promised to get the man safely up the mountain. Borch is his responsibility for the duration of the hunt. And, like with everyone he has ever meant to protect, he fails. Borch lets go and disappears as he falls.

Geralt feels frozen. His hands tremble slightly and he feels Yennefer tap him on the shoulder. They must go forward.

He watches both of them with extra vigilance for the rest of the walkway. He refuses to lose them, too.

* * *

They make camp at the first open space they reach, all of them glad to have solid ground under their feet. Geralt can only see Borch falling out of sight. It was his fault.

He sits away from the group looking out at the mountain peaks, somewhere in the valleys lay three bodies because of him. He should have pulled them up harder.

Jaskier comes to sit next to him, a little behind. He doesn’t need to look to see who it is. He knows Jaskier’s smell, chamomile and earth and wood. He knows the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat, beating four times as fast as his own but hitting the same beats in time.

“You did your best. There’s nothing else you could have done. Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow. That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

Geralt hums, a small smile tugging at his lips. Jaskier was so much more than a travelling companion, and he was worthier than he knew.

“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.”

Gods, the coast.

Geralt hasn’t been to the coast in close to a century. He’s been avoiding them ever since he sent Julian away on the ocean's waves.

He doesn’t say anything. It’s getting harder and harder to not act on his feelings for Jaskier, with each passing year his heart grows heavier with its unsaid truths. Being reminded of how Julian died has brought back in startling clarity why he needs to bury his feelings for the bard. No matter how much he wants him.

“Sounds like something Borch would say. Life is too short. Do what pleases you, while you can.”

Geralt closes his eyes. What pleases him brings death wherever he goes. “Composing your next song?” he asks instead of finally admitted that Jaskier is what pleases him.

There’s no way he can explain what’s going on in his head to the man next to him. Instead, he walks away and finds his feet leading him to Yennefer’s tent. Yes, he is running from his feelings, and he’ll run from them until his dying day.

* * *

Yennefer is intoxicating. She is beautiful and smart and powerful. Geralt does not love her.

He cares for her, truly. And there is no denying that she means a lot to him. But his heart belongs to a certain blue-eyed someone he is ignoring.

She bares her heart to him and tells him she dreamed of being important to someone. “You’re important to me,” he tells her because he can’t say he loves her when he doesn’t.

When he is with Yennefer it's easy to get caught up in her. The smell of lilacs and gooseberries. Her purple eyes that look like they hold the answers to questions he hasn’t even asked yet.

She lies next to him propped up on one arm and analysing him. “Why do you let him follow you around?”

“Hmm?”

“The bard.”

Geralt opens his eyes and sighs, “I can’t stop him.”

“You could’ve let him die at the hands of the djinn. Then he’d be out of your way.”

Geralt frowns at that, “I don’t want him dead.”

“Why?” There’s a look in Yennefer’s eyes as if she already knows the reason.

“He’s my friend.”

Yennefer snorts, “That’s the first time you’ve said that.” Geralt glares and she only smirks, “Tell me, is he also an old flame? You two agreed to be friends, something like that?”

“No,” he says darkly, clenching his teeth and looking pointedly at the ceiling.

“Ah,” he hears her smile, feels her fingers trace the air over his bare chest but never touching, “But you wanted him to be your lover.”

“No,” he denies again, although even he can hear the lie in his voice.

Yennefer hums disbelievingly, “So, he’s not your old lover, you never wanted him to be and it’s taken you decades to accept he’s a friend. Then tell me, Geralt, why you would have given your life for his in Rinde if that was my price? Yes, I did read your mind.”

Geralt glares at her again but knows there’s no point being angry at Yennefer for what she did in Rinde, not after he bound them with magic. He swallows and all the times he’s seen Jaskier die in the past come to the forefront of his mind as if they were only yesterday. Only two other people than him know; Yennefer was bound to find out eventually and this explanation was better than thinking too hard about what Jaskier really meant to him.

“This is not the first life he’s lived. I don’t want to see him die again.”

Yennefer sits up straighter at that. “You’ve raised him from the dead? That’s dark and forbidden magic. I knew you were stupid but-”

“I didn’t do anything,” Geralt cuts her off. “He just shows up. A few decades after I see him die, he’s there again. But with a new life and a new name. But still him.”

Yennefer is silent and her eyes move from side to side as she thinks back over all the scrolls she has read. “Reincarnation?”

“I suppose.”

She relaxes back onto the bed and hums. “That makes sense,” she says absently to herself.

“What does?” Geralt frowns.

“When I healed the djinn wound, there was magic in him that didn’t belong to the djinn. I merely assumed it was a glamour of sorts and that he’d been given a favour from a mage, he looks annoyingly good for his age.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “You said he had crow’s feet two days ago.”

“To make him paranoid.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, he doesn’t know why they hate each other so much but he doesn’t want to risk his life by getting in the middle of it. “So, he has magic?”

Yennefer does not resist rolling her eyes, “Are you even listening? He doesn’t have magic, there’s some within him. Not his own, I can only imagine what he would do with the ability to wield chaos. It’s underlying, a spell or curse has been cast on him.”

Geralt hums, for a long time he had wondered if it was him who was cursed to constantly bear witness to his death. “What kind of curse?”

“I’m not sure, I’d have to take a closer look at him. And for that, he’d need to know, which I assume he doesn’t.” He shakes his head and she gives him another sharp look. “He deserves to know.”

“What good would it do? He won’t remember.”

Yennefer shrugs, “Still, he’d probably love the idea. He might even make a good song about it.”

“Oh, now you think he makes good songs?”

“I said maybe.”

“I don’t want to talk about Jaskier,” Geralt sees disappointment flash in her eyes, she wants to get to the bottom of this but he can’t let her. If she finds out what Jaskier used to be to him then she might leave. He can’t lose her, either. He could love her; he just needs time.

She lets him pull her in for a kiss and drops the topic.

* * *

The dwarves have already left camp when they arise and they rush to the final peak for the dragon. Geralt should be used to people coming back from the dead by now, but he still can’t believe his eyes at seeing Borch and his warriors alive.

He doesn’t have time to mull on it because the Reavers have caught up and he focusses on the fight. Yennefer is deadly with a sword as much as she is with magic. He doesn’t need to protect her. He pulls her in for a kiss as they blast the Reavers back.

He can love her. Someday. He can.

Jaskier shows up with the dwarves and Geralt is glad to see the Reavers hadn’t killed him on their way up. He sits away from them as he and Yennefer talk with Borch. A child, a legacy; that’s what Yennefer wants and he thinks of his Child Surprise and if they would be his legacy if he ever claimed them.

“I can see why Geralt didn’t want to lose you.”

“What does that mean?”

Geralt feels like his stomach might implode as his world comes crashing down around him. “In Rinde, the djinn,” he admits.

“That’s why we can’t escape each other. Why I feel this way inside. It’s not real or true. It’s magic.”

“It’s real, Yen,” Geralt insists, because the djinn hasn’t made him love her, so whatever they felt could only come from them.

“How could we ever know? Disregard for other’s freedom has become quite your trademark,” she gestures over to Jaskier. Thankfully, she doesn’t bring up his past lives.

Borch interrupts their fight, “The sorceress will never regain her womb. And though you don’t want to lose her, Geralt, you will.”

“He already has,” Yennefer bites and storms away.

“You wanted to show me what I was missing? There she goes,” Geralt growls, watching the dust kicked up by Yennefer’s portal settle back to the ground.

“There’s still more waiting for you out there,” Borch says, eyes flicking over to Jaskier where he waits off to the side.

Geralt really doesn’t need an all-knowing dragon to confirm everything he’s wanting when he knows he can’t follow that path. His anger flares. By gods, he knows that Jaskier is an inescapable part of his life. Even now, when he had abstained from pursuing anything romantic he had stayed by his side for twenty years. The second longest he had lived, which served to prove that by remaining platonic he was ensuring he wouldn’t die.

That wasn’t enough, though. Jaskier would still die someday. Had nearly died just yesterday on that damn shortcut. Jaskier was mortal and painfully human. Geralt had let him put his life in danger for too long.

For all Borch knew, he didn’t understand.

Yennefer was powerful. She couldn’t be killed easily. Wouldn’t die any time soon. If Geralt was bound to a person for life, why couldn’t it be her? That was why he had made that stupid wish in the first place. In the hopes that in doing so it would be Yennefer, with the assurance he wouldn’t cause her death, rather than Jaskier who he inevitably would.

“Whew, what a day,” Jaskier wonders over, levity in his voice and clear eagerness to get back on the road. Geralt grits his teeth. This isn’t fair. “I imagine you’re probably-”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” he rounds on him, all of his anger finally spilling out. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Jaskier denies, voice quiet and hurt rolling off him so thick Geralt nearly chokes. What right does Jaskier have to hurt? What right does he have when it’s Geralt who has watched him die three times? When it’s him who lives with that guilt every day? When it’s him who finally had a chance of happiness with Yennefer but couldn’t because Jaskier was still with him?

“The Child Surprise. The djinn. All of it! If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands.”

“Right, uh, right then. I’ll- I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others. See you around, Geralt.”

Jaskier’s final words sting but he’s already looking away. Those were the words Jaskier would always say before they parted, promising a reunion in the future. Now he suspects there will be no such thing.

Geralt glares out at the mountain tops. The sounds of the others behind him trickle off as they make their way down the mountain and he kneels in the ground. He has lost the two people closest to him.

He could never listen, never follow his own promises. _A Witcher has no emotions_ , gods, how he wishes that was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is She - Dodie
> 
> oof, we made it, it was a tough ride but we made it! geralt is having a very bad time (so is jaskier so prepare yourselves for his pov)! i love yen but shes so hard to write so I hope I did her justice! let me know <3


	16. inherently unloveable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! sorry this is a day late, I was awake for basically three days straight and wanted this chapter to be the best it could be and didn't manage to get it done in time! and buckle up folks this is a sad one! <3

Jaskier is a weak man, that much he knows. Not physically, he nearly matches Geralt in stature and is plenty capable of winning a fight. When it comes to matters of the heart, however, he may as well have the strength of a petal.

That’s why he’s been following Geralt for fifteen years despite the fact that his love is woefully unrequited. At least, he thinks it is. For the most part, Geralt is rude, dismissive and sometimes downright cruel to him. Jaskier knows that’s just how the Witcher is, after centuries of being looked down on by the world it’s completely understandable. Then there will be moments, brief but sweet moments, where Jaskier swears he sees that façade crack.

When he gets injured, Geralt will spend an hour telling him he’s an idiot for getting into another bar fight, or following him on a hunt, but he’ll patch up his wound all the same. On the rare occasions they end up sharing a bed, at some point in the night Geralt will always sling an arm over him and hold him close; Jaskier leaves before Geralt wakes, Melitele knows what kind of hell would happen if they woke together like that. Other times it’s a small smile, where Geralt’s eyes light up with mirth and he tilts his head to the side when Jaskier sings a bawdy lyric or is being melodramatic.

It’s these slivers of attention, hints at more to come, that keep Jaskier coming back for more. It took several years before Jaskier was sure Geralt considered him a friend, even if the man would never admit it. So, if that was how long it took, then Jaskier is willing to wait until Geralt returns his feelings.

However, there is the small matter that while Jaskier patiently waits for Geralt to see him in the same light, Geralt still treats him as a mere tolerance. Sure, there are times when Jaskier is sure there were never two greater friends. They _know_ each other. He knows which potions to get him. Geralt knows when to stop before he has a chance to complain about his feet hurting. They can make each other laugh with a single glance when a lord is being a dick. And whenever Jaskier thinks they are getting closer it’s back to square one again.

Geralt will go back to one-word sentences, disappear into brothels and only call him ‘bard’ instead of by his name.

So, Jaskier is a weak man. He’ll walk the Continent for the rest of his days chasing the man he’s sure is the love of his life. That doesn’t mean that when the chance of love, reciprocated love, comes falling at his feet he’ll pass up the option.

The Countess had showered him with kisses and tears before they left her lands and it took less than a week for him to receive a letter from her pleading him to come back. He had asked Geralt whether he should return to her and the Witcher had barely muttered a, “Do what the fuck you want, bard.”

It wasn’t a hard choice to set back off the way he came.

He loves Geralt, truly and utterly, but he’s only human. He just wants to love and be loved in return.

The Countess is riveting. She is all beauty and power and keen observations. He sits with her at banquets she hosts, no longer in her servitude as a bard but revered as her equal. Well, nearly, he may be a viscount but he’s not been to Lettenhove since he was fourteen and she is a Countess who’s been in command of these lands for the last ten years since her husband died. There are constant reminders of his place, not by her but by those who sneer and call him escort or whore.

Nothing he hasn’t heard before and the Countess is quick to remind him they’re jealous he’s sat by her while they’ve all been vying for her hand for years. He thinks about that, her hand, and whether she expects this to end in a marriage. There are worse people to be married to, she is one of the best in fact, but his stomach twists uneasily.

He loves her but his heart belongs on the road with Geralt, it lies in Cintra with Ciri, it is tied to the life of a travelling bard. She never outright says it, never even mentions a future with him, and so he lets himself get lost in her love for however long he can hold onto it.

She only calls him Flower and he loves it, her affections and devotion.

She loves so openly and freely it sends his head spinning. He doesn’t need to chase compliments when she gives them freely. He doesn’t need to make up convoluted plans to get her to laugh, smile or touch him. Jaskier has never been loved like this before.

“What would I do without you, Flower?” she whispers sweetly in his ear, tucked against his side and he knows that this must be what it’s like to be loved.

Before he knows it, winter is already drawing near, and as much as he loves her there is a certain princess he has promised this season to. Ciri is the only real family he’s ever had and she has so little family left herself that he wouldn’t dare let her down.

“My love, I’m afraid I must leave by week’s end,” Jaskier whispers into the Countess’ hair.

She stills under him, pulling back to look at him with incredulous eyes, “What?”

“I have prior arrangements in Cintra for the winter.”

“Cancel them,” she demands, no teasing in her voice.

He sighs and sits up, “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“What’s so important in Cintra?”

“Someone important to me.”

The Countess looks as though she’s been slapped, her brief anguish quickly transforming into anger. “Get out of my sight. I thought I was the most important thing to you? Leave. Go.” She storms about the room yelling at him for using her as a warm bed, collecting his things and shoving them into a bag

Jaskier tries to explain that Ciri is not his whore, that she is five years old and he’ll come back in spring but she doesn’t hear a word. She chucks the bag at him and storms out of the room leaving him behind. Looks like he’ll arrive in Cintra early this year.

* * *

“Jas!” he’s not even made it to the bedroom before he sees the flash of blonde running down the hallway towards him. Ciri launches herself into his arms and he lifts her and spins her around, she giggles loudly and Jaskier squeezes her tightly before setting her back down.

“Look how big you’ve gotten! You’ll be Queen in no time.”

“I hope not.”

Jaskier freezes, only now catching sight of Calanthe and her ladies in waiting who Ciri had run away from. He bows quickly, “My Queen, it would be my honour if you would let me stay in your humble abode and perform for you this season.”

Calanthe snorts, eyeing his large bag, “Seems you’ve already made yourself at home.” She looks down at Ciri, who is still clutching the sleeve of his doublet and practically bouncing with eager energy. “I don’t think I have much say in the matter,” she says, looking at the girl with a fond smile on her face.

In the past few years, Jaskier has seen the Queen soften considerably. Calanthe is more protective and that has lead to an overwhelming increase in security around the city, but losing Pavetta and having Ciri has made her softer, more cautious and less harsh with those she loves.

“There’s a banquet tonight, I’m sick of the royal bards. You can play,” Calanthe’s voice tells him it’s a command rather than a suggestion.

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Come along, Ciri.”

Ciri looks up at the Queen with big sad eyes, then up to Jaskier, “But-“

“Go on,” Jaskier says softly, giving her a nudge, “I’ll see you later.”

Ciri huffs and pouts but joins her grandmothers’ side and they disappear around a corner. Jaskier finds his way to the guest wing and flops onto the bed. Between Geralt and the Countess, he’s not had the best year in regards to love, at least here in Cintra he knows there will always be a place for him. He will always be wanted.

He naps for a few hours and then gets ready for the banquet. He brushes up on his repertoire of songs with no mention of Geralt or Witchers and makes his way to the hall.

It’s already bustling when he arrives, one of the last banquets before Winter makes travel impossible. The lords and ladies who live in the castle fill the space as well as those who hold titles in nearby lands. It’ll be quieter in a few weeks and this will no doubt be Jaskier’s last performance for a crowd this big for some time.

He joins the band and plays a few well-known jigs that get the guests dancing. A while later the royal family arrives, there’s no grand entrance or silence and bows. They slip in and make their rounds without much fanfare.

Altogether different from Pavetta’s betrothal banquet. His heart hurts at her memory, especially when he catches sight of Ciri who is her mirror image, but he knows she would have loved to see what had become of her family. She had hated all the peacocking and grandeur that Calanthe had bemoaned but thrived on; this was exactly what he had expected Pavetta’s reign to look like. He supposes it is her reign, acting through Calanthe, because he doubts the Queen would have changed her ways if not for Pavetta’s death.

He’s allowed to rest after an hour of playing, one of the other bards taking lead while he finds himself some food. He wolfs down a plate of meat and vegetables, a royal banquet always had the best quality food even if it had gone cold. Jaskier looks down when he feels a polite tap on his lower back.

Ciri is there, hands now neatly behind her back and posture immaculate. She looks very well behaved and if he didn’t have first-hand experience of her mischievousness, he never would have guessed.

He bows deeply and she giggles, her composure breaking. “Princess Cirilla, the lion cub of Cintra, might I have this dance?”

She nods quickly and he brings her to the edge of the dancefloor, thankfully the song isn’t too complicated and they easily fall into the steps. He spins her round and round, and when it’s his turn to be spun he bends over practically in half to fit under her upstretched arm. He looks anything but graceful but her loud laughs are worth it.

Ciri demands he dance with her for the next three dances until Eist and Calanthe join them on a partner swapping dance that rotates around the hall. When Ciri and Calanthe swap, Jaskier holds his breath as the Queen levels him with a no-nonsense glare but there’s a quirk to her lips that he’s seen on Geralt often enough to know is a smile.

Somehow, on one of the swaps it’s Eist that ends up in his arms. The man quirks an eyebrow at him, then shrugs and they dance the moves with a laugh until they swap partners and finally he has Ciri back.

“Ah princess, it’s so wonderful to have you back! I must say your grandparents are talented, but neither could match your elegance,” he declares as he spins the girl.

“Hey,” Eist looks over at him with an exaggerated offence and Ciri sticks her tongue out at him.

Eventually, he has to go back to being a bard for the night. Not long after Ciri is taken to bed and then he gets to break out the less child-friendly songs. He plays until the early hours and collapses into bed, exhausted but without a worry for the first time in a long time.

* * *

Spring rolls around again and for the first time, Jaskier finds himself without the itchy feet that usually call him to Geralt. He also knows that if he stays any longer then word will get out that he’s playing in Cintra and Geralt will find out about his six year long secret.

He leaves with a heavy heart and without thinking about it finds himself back at the Countess’ estate. It isn’t where he had particularly wanted to go but he had been avoiding Geralt, purposefully following another direction if he heard word of him.

His heart ached for him, desperately so, but he didn’t think he could face watching Geralt leave him for a brothel just yet.

The Countess, of course, welcomes him back with open arms. Laments how much she had missed him and wanted for him. He hears the falseness to her tone now and doesn’t know why he hadn’t before, but he ignores it and lets himself believe.

The weeks pass quickly and she gives him all the love and attention she gave him before, but it leaves him feeling sick. It’s an act to her, some character she adopts to distract from her boring life. She likes to play with his emotions, she’ll give him endless love all night then shut him out if he mentions something she doesn’t like. She’ll kick him out of her room and leave him questioning what exactly it was he did for days until she beckons him back and makes him promise to be better.

He wants to be better. Maybe if he was better she would love him for real.

Summer comes by fast and Jaskier wishes he had sucked it up and found Geralt after all.

“What are you thinking about, Flower?” her voice is high and trill in his ear as he gazes out the window.

“Just about travelling.”

She tuts, “I hope you’re not thinking about that nasty Witcher, Flower, you deserve so much better than him.”

She only calls him Flower and he hates it, her patronising tone of voice and mocking pout.

“I was actually, all my best songs are about him.” It’s the wrong thing to say because she reels back and he already knows that she’ll kick him out.

Instead of yelling, her lip quivers, “I thought I was your muse? Do you not love me?”

“Of course,” he’s quick to her side with gentle touches but the words taste stale on his tongue, “Of course, I love you.”

She sniffles, “Then sing a song for me. About how much you love me.”

Jaskier licks his lips thinking of the songs he’s written about her, which now that he thinks about it are relatively few and none of them are grand sweeping love tales. He sings a little ditty he wrote when he met her about her beauty and her wits. The slap that stings across his cheek was not something he saw coming.

“That wasn’t love, that was lust. I should have known,” she bristles, as if she had ever loved him in the first place. “I’ve indulged you against my better judgement. Now go. And don’t return.”

Jaskier races to get dressed, he’s never left her chambers without being kicked out and this time he can’t get away fast enough. He shoves his clothes into his bag, packs his lute and is gone within an hour.

How foolish he had been to let himself believe he would be loved.

He drinks his way across the next few towns, not caring which way the wind takes him as long as he’s just about sober enough to play and earn some money. Maybe he should go back to Cintra.

And then he hears of a Witcher searching for a djinn, and there’s only one idiot he knows who would do that.

Rinde is a bit of a stuckup town if he’s being quite honest. He’s never met common folk who so meticulously uphold such levels of decorum. Then he sees the mayor and his guard and can guess they’ve got something to do with it.

Thankfully, his search leads him out of town and to the river. He has a leather pouch of the strongest alcohol he can find and by the time he finds Geralt he is thoroughly wasted. Which is a good thing because he doesn’t think his heart can handle the usual level of rejection.

As expected Geralt ignores him while he tries to get any kind of reaction. He doesn’t let it stop him, the alcohol helping soothe the way, “How are you doing, I hear you ask.”

“I didn’t.”

Jaskier sighs, heart deflating already and also foolishly flipping at hearing Geralt’s voice for the first time in nearly a year. “Well, the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world,” he says with derision, “Has left me. Again. Rather coldly and unexpectedly, I might add. I fear I shall die a broken-hearted man,” he leaves out the part that it is not because he has lost her but because he’s sure he’s lost any chance of love. “Or a hungry one, unless someone fancies sharing a fish with an old friend?”

Geralt still ignores him, doesn’t even give him a hint of acknowledgement or give up in his search. “Still not using the word friend, yeah, let’s give it another decade,” he mutters bitterly, taking a sip of alcohol and only the last drop touching his tongue.

He even ends up naming types of fish, “Zander, is that a fish?” he remembers distinctly teasing his brother for having that as a name when they were children. His brother who is now a man grown like him, the last time he saw him he was ten. In fact, he’s given his whole life to Geralt and has no clue what’s really happened to his brothers and sisters.

Finally, he manages to coax Geralt into a conversation and feigns surprise at being told he’s hunting for a djinn. His bad mood has been building for weeks and it takes one insult from Geralt about his singing to send him over the edge and snap. He’s heard Geralt complain about his singing for years, this isn’t even the gravest of insults but it’s the one that hurts the most.

The djinn is freed and Jaskier immediately jumps on the opportunity, he wishes for the Countess to take him back because she is the only one who has shown him love, even if it was fake. Then for Valdo to die, obviously, the bastard. His third wish is on the tip of his tongue, by far the most serious, which is to stop the ache that has taken a permanent residence in his heart. Geralt yanks him back before he can make that one.

They scream at each other and Jaskier smashes the djinn bottle.

He doubles over in agony as something slices his throat. He can’t breathe. He wheezes and coughs up blood.

“Jaskier,” Geralt is kneeling in front of him with wide worried eyes. It’s a shame Jaskier has to nearly die to ever get this from him.

Geralt lifts him over his shoulder and he wheezes even more. Then they’re on Roach and he can only just hold on with his thighs as Geralt sets a brutal pace. His vision is blurring and he’s never been in so much pain.

He thinks back to the manticore and the sting of poison working through his veins and the needle in his muscle. This is worse, somehow. It is magic working its way through his throat, and if he lost a leg he’d survive but what is he without his voice? Singing is the only thing he is good at, the only thing people wanted him for. If he didn’t have his voice then nobody would have any use for him.

Jaskier barely registers the elf healer and hastily drinks what he gives him. He’d drink anything right now if it meant a chance of stopping this.

“Like rubbing salve on a tumour?”

It dawns on Jaskier, then, that the consequences of this might not just be a lost voice but his life. “Fuck, Geralt,” he gasps out, looking for reassurance. This is definitely not how he wants to die and the terror makes it even harder to breathe.

Whatever the elf had given him helps the pain a little but he’s still coughing up blood and losing his awareness by the second. Geralt has him on Roach again and it’s even worse this time with no ability to even lift his arms.

Geralt knocks out a guard with a pouch of coin, which is indescribably hot, but then he’s hoisting him over his shoulder again and Jaskier can’t breathe like this. He gasps when he’s finally set down on a table, sucking in air and the naked man is the least of his worries.

They leave again and this time Jaskier has to walk on shaky legs while Geralt holds him by the back of his doublet. The collar of his shirt digs into the swelling of his neck and he’s glad when Geralt sets him down in the middle of an orgy.

A woman cards her fingers pleasantly through his hair and those around him pull him into them, trying to take off his clothes. It’s very loving and generous and he’d reciprocate if it weren’t for his throat. And the fact that judging by the smoke on the floor he’s not sure if these people are aware they’re in an orgy.

Right when his throat starts to hurt unbearably again the mist disappears and the people suddenly withdraw. Whoever had been holding him up drops him as if he’d burnt her and his back slams into the hardwood floor.

He grunts in pain but can’t do much else. The people try to hide themselves from each other which only confirms to him it was magic.

Geralt lifts him again and carries him away from the hall and to a bed. He can’t speak anymore, can’t do anything really. It scares him more than he’s ever been in his life but he knows Geralt won’t let him die. Or rather, he hopes.

* * *

_“She cursed me.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Anathea.”_

_He’s running through the woods, a dandelion clutched in his hands and a girl chasing him._

_He’s running. He’s surrounded by men in armour holding swords. There’s a horde of men coming towards him, too. He fights like his life depends on it because it does._

_He’s running, a tower looms in the distance and the forest grows and circles him protectively._

_He falls to his knees and coughs up a mouthful of blood after blood. His lungs hurt and his throat aches. He lifts a hand to feel the swelling but it’s gone._

* * *

Jaskier wakes to a tickle in his throat and a soft bed under his fingers. He sinks into the mattress for a moment, trying to remember how he got here. He blinks awake looking around the room with a dry mouth and a killer hangover.

Someone is sat at the end of the bed with cascading hair. He does not remember her, which is a shame because she looks rather lovely.

“Whew, um right, good. Good. Um, not to be untoward or anything but did we, you know, do the uh,” he flounders, not knowing how to ask if they slept together without offending her for not remembering. He must have been really drunk.

She turns around and fixes killer purple eyes on him. A mage. There’s an amphora painted on her abdomen and he is not about to be part of some magical sacrifice.

“Ooh, god- oh no, no!,” he scrambles to get away as she starts to climb towards him, “Definitely did not butter that biscuit.” He runs around the bed, grabbing his boots and putting them on as quick as possible. “Look, I am so sorry, but I’ve just remembered I left my cat on the stove, I really must be going.”

The mage walks towards him, slow and holding a knife. “Express your deepest desire and you can be on your way.” She shoves him back with magic and he grunts as his back slams into the wall. “How’s your throat?”

Then he remembers the djinn and nearly dying and Geralt carrying him here. Had Geralt left him alone with a crazy witch? Most likely.

“Perhaps you should try some scales.”

He begins to sing Toss a Coin when she puts a blade to his throat and grabs his groin tightly, “If you want to keep all you have, make a damn wish.”

“I wish very badly to leave this place forever!”

She begins to chant and moves to the centre of the room and wind picks up. He’s seen this level power twice now and this time he doesn’t think he can stop it. The door flies open and he races for it, he casts one last look at the room and the mage in the centre.

Jaskier wishes just once his life would be easy.

As he leaves the mansion, he spots Geralt walking towards him and all the hurt he had felt upon seeing him yesterday disappears. Geralt locks eyes with him and seems just as relieved as he is. Jaskier is more than content to walk away as fast as possible and Geralt easily falls in step beside him. He’s missed this so much he hadn’t realised. All he had thought about was his romantic feelings he had forgotten how easy their friendship was.

“Jaskier, you’re okay,” he hears the smile in Geralt’s voice. He knows that the Witcher would never let him die, that he cares too much to let that happen.

“I’m glad to hear you give a monkey’s about it.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and tells Geralt about his lovely dream and the horrifically terrifying witch who had nearly killed him. Geralt stops and Jaskier realises that he knows the witch, and now he won’t let her die either.

He tries to stop Geralt charging back inside but it’s no use. Usually, he would join him but he’d very much like to never see the woman inside ever again. Even just thinking about her devilish eyes fixed on him sent a shiver of fear down his spine.

There’s an elf who looks vaguely familiar waiting with him looking as anxious as he feels. It feels like an eternity later when the house begins to shake and a man comes running out of the building and says he has no idea what’s going on.

Geralt still hasn’t come out. The house shakes more and more and then the roof caves in.

“No,” he whispers, “That’s- that’s where they were,” he chokes out.

“Are you sure they were up there?” the elf asks but Jaskier’s hearing goes muffled.

“This can’t be happening,” he sinks to his knees, unable to hold himself up. Geralt was gone. Dead. His eyes fill up with tears and his mind replays Geralt disappearing into the house over and over. He should have stopped him, shouldn’t have thrown the djinn bottle because then they’d never be here. It’s his fault. “This can’t be happening,” he repeats.

It can’t be. Without Geralt, he has nowhere to go. Geralt is what makes his life worth living, even without the small detail of being in love with him, Geralt is his muse, his inspiration. What’s the point of being a travelling bard if there’s no Witcher by his side? What’s the point of living if Geralt isn’t there to keep him out of trouble?

“Why did Geralt go in there?” he asks out loud, not expecting an answer because he already knew his hero complex would send him into the jaws of death, but for her? “To save a mad fucking witch? Why?”

“Because she was magnificent,” the elf breathes and Jaskier thinks he needs to raise his standards.

“What am I supposed to do now? It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I’m gonna write you the best song,” he promises Geralt, who lives now only in his memory, “So that everyone remembers who you were, what we did, and everything we saw. And I’m going to sing it for the rest of my days.”

The pain in his heart is so deep Jaskier thinks it might give out. He can’t even find Geralt’s body crushed in the rubble, he can’t bury him or say goodbye.

“They’re alive.”

“Bollocks.”

Jaskier gets up and joins the elf and then he looks through the window. It’s Geralt. He’s alive, thank all the gods. Relief rushes through him, “Oh, they’re alive.”

He takes a closer look now that the euphoria of having Geralt basically back from the dead subsides and he sees the witch under him. They’re having sex right there in the rubble. Then something inside him breaks; it hurts worse than thinking he was dead.

The witch who had very near killed him is now the subject of Geralt’s affections, when he’s the one right here who had nearly been killed.

“They’re really alive,” he’s dumbstruck, his eyes stuck on their coupling. He wants to be sick but he can’t look away. For all the times Geralt has slept with someone at least he’s never seen it.

The elf pulls him away from the window and his eyes burn with unshed tears. He follows the elf away from the house and into town, along the way learning his name is Chireadan and that the elf is supposedly in love with the mad witch, Yennefer.

At the tavern, they begin to drown their sorrows and Jaskier finds some comfort in the fact that he isn’t alone in his heartbreak. Chireadan lets him stay with him for the night and then bright and early Jaskier leaves Rinde, he can’t stand to stay in the place for any longer.

Without realising it, he’s following the path to the river again and finds a camp which is now abandoned. He looks around but there’s no sign that Geralt has been back in the meantime.

Jaskier deliberates staying and waiting for Geralt to return but he worries that Yennefer will be with him. Or that he’ll abandon him in favour of her. He could have already portalled away to the other side of the Continent with her and never come back.

It would make sense. Yennefer was beautiful and powerful and Geralt hadn’t thought twice about risking his life for her. What was a better match for a Witcher than a mage? Better than a bard, that’s for sure.

He moves on without waiting for Geralt, it’s too early in the year to head to Cintra. Jaskier knows he would be welcome there and would appreciate being surrounded by family, but it’s the height of summer and he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself with all the guests at the castle.

So he travels as he always has, staying in a town long enough to soak up the history and the people and then move on. He doesn’t play songs about Geralt, at least none that name him because all of his songs are about him in some way.

His own name is too famous to travel by without someone asking him about Geralt, so he goes by Buttercup – an old translation of his name. He sings tales of love and ballads of fairy tale romances until the audience is sick of his melancholy and demands jigs. He doesn’t make as much money as when he sings about Geralt but it’s enough to get by.

Jaskier feels a little guilty not singing about him; he had promised to improve his reputation and that was an ongoing responsibility, but in fifteen years he had never been thanked for the obvious improvements. When they first started travelling they had been run out of town once a month, now it was once in a blue moon. He sang so much about Witchers that he rarely devoted his time to honing his skills in other genres, and now was his time to try.

Still, when the cold weather draws nearer and he finds his way to Cintra he wonders if he made a mistake. He has a propensity to dwell in his unhappiness; perhaps he is judging Geralt too harshly. It isn’t the mans fault Jaskier wants more. In spring he will find him again, and let go of all that is weighing him down.

* * *

“Teach me to play,” Ciri demands, six years old and already every bit as commanding as a queen.

Jaskier hands over his lute, she had adored playing it when she was a toddler. If strumming mindlessly could count as playing, she had lost interest in recent years so he was surprised by her sudden want. “What makes you want to play?”

She settles the lute in her lap, sitting next to him on the grass even though she’ll get grass stains. Her handmaids wait patiently standing next to her; that was another thing, now she is older and allowed to roam the castle as she wished she is followed by a trail of maids and nannies. Jaskier doesn’t mind them, they are all lovely and kind, but it means he rarely sees alone.

“Eist said all young ladies should learn music.”

“And your grandmother hasn’t gotten you a proper tutor?”

Ciri ducks her head, plucking randomly at the strings and pressing on the frets to create a dreadful melody. “Yes.”

“Then why me, dear heart?”

Ciri chews her lips, “Ela, the cook’s daughter, said she likes lutes. So, I wanna play for her. She’s my friend,” she says shyly.

Jaskier feels his heart fill with warmth and smiles widely, “That’s great, Ciri.” He shows her the simplest of chords until she can play them with only a little hesitation. “Look at that, you’re a natural.”

She grins up at him and he’s glad he made the decision all those years ago to keep an eye on her. He can’t imagine a life without her.

* * *

Jaskier leaves Cintra with great reluctance; he had resolved himself to finding Geralt but now the time has come he’s scared. Scared because he knows that his heart belongs to him. No matter how much he uses logic or tells himself to be content with just friendship he can’t fall out of love so easily.

He hesitates chasing rumours. He doesn’t run away from them but he doesn’t let it change the direction he is already heading in. The city he winds up in is bustling and the perfect place to lose himself for a while.

That is until he bumps into Geralt in the market. All he can see is Yennefer underneath him. His instinct is to run and much to his surprise Geralt stops him and invites him for a drink. The hopeless part of him can’t resist, is happy that his presence is wanted.

The air is heavy with tension and the elephant in the room. There’s no way to explain his sudden disappearance in Rinde other than heartbreak. Without a doubt Geralt must know of his feelings, that’s why he’s being so unusually quiet. Not quiet in the usual Geralt way but in the holding back from saying something way.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry,” Geralt starts and Jaskier braces himself to be told that their time travelling together will end. And the incredibly foolish part of him thinks that maybe Geralt has finally decided to like him back and is apologising for Yennefer. “For the djinn. For what my wish did to you. I didn’t get a chance to say so in Rinde.”

He sighs and looks away, his fleeting hope crushed. His mind catches up, Geralt’s wish? He hadn’t realised it wasn’t him with the wishes, and that witch had threatened him for no reason. It’s in the past, he promised himself to not dwell.

Looking back with a smile he assures Geralt it’s fine and his throat is healed, “Glad I won’t have to see her again, though. Very sexy but very insane. You know she threatened to castrate me?”

Geralt chuckles, “Yen’s like that.”

Jaskier already knows what that means but he can’t help asking anyway. Geralt confirms he’s seen the witch several times since Rinde and Jaskier wants to run away right now. The fondness is clear in his voice, the way he smiles when he talks about her and easily laughs at her memory.

Now he realises how stupid he’s been. It’s been god knows how many years since he realised he loves him, and in all that time he had hoped, believed, that one day he would be loved back. Geralt just needed time to get to the same place as him and he was willing to wait. He was wrong; it doesn’t take Geralt long to fall in love, it barely takes a day, apparently.

It throws everything into perspective. Everything Jaskier had ever held close as a promise of something more is now a bitter reminder that his lovesick heart has deluded him.

“Who’s Valdo Marx?” Geralt asks to change the topic and isn’t that the icing on the cake. Jaskier has told Geralt about Valdo more times than he can count, never passing up an opportunity to slander the bastard. He’s even dragged Geralt to the bardic competition before. Does he never listen to him?

Speaking of Valdo, he remembers the song he wrote all those years ago. Back then it had been sweet longing, boyhood crushes and almost relationships. Working out that he likes both men and women in a society that didn’t accept that beyond closed doors. It was just his luck that it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was no longer so innocent, he had said Geralt smelt of heartbreak in Posada and he was right. The song now could hold no other meaning to him than being about Geralt, his devotion to him in the face of disregard.

He doesn’t know what compels him to sing the song for the tavern, but now he’s convinced Geralt will never see how he feels about him. He sings his heart out until he can’t keep back the tears and swallows them down. After he plays a few more songs to distract himself and returns.

“It’s a good song.”

The bare minimum, but Jaskier will take it. He locks his heart away. Friends. Travelling companions. It was what he would have to be happy with.

* * *

The first time he sees Yennefer again he chokes on his drink with fear. She walks over and he thinks she’s finally come to kill him. She sits next to Geralt and practically drapes herself over him and he welcomes it with a smile.

Right, they are together. Geralt loves her.

When she finally graces him with another look she insults him. He’s never even done anything to her. He can’t stand to look at her and Geralt all disgustingly in love so makes an excuse to leave and races out of the tavern.

He sucks in a deep breath outside, adrenaline coursing through his body, a phantom pain in his neck and a memory of her hand on his groin. Geralt won’t let her kill him. It takes a few minutes for his legs and hands to stop shaking and when he does he finds a tavern on the other side of town.

Pettily, he plays all the songs he knows about old hag witches and a few less than tasteful ones about Witchers.

* * *

“I know you,” an old and short woman points a finger at him. “I do indeed.”

Jaskier looks down at the old lady with brown eyes, he thinks he might recognise her but can’t place her. “Is that so? My apologies but I don’t seem to remember you, my fair lady.”

The woman considers him, “How do you look so young? Is it a glamour? You never told me you had magic.”

Jaskier blinks, “Uh, I’m terribly sorry but I think you have me mistaken.”

She shakes her head, “I know you. You came to my village when I was a girl. You were one of the only interesting things before I left. You and your band of merry men, although they stayed longer than you did.”

Jaskier really has no clue what she’s on about. He’d say she was deluded but she only looks to be about sixty and can’t have lost her senses yet. There is no way he could have met her as a girl because he likely wasn’t even born yet, he tells her as such.

“Do you really not remember me? I’m Marilka,” she pauses waiting for a reaction, “Like milk?”

“I’m afraid not. My names Jaskier, so we’re on equal footing.”

Marilka hums displeased, “What was your father’s name? Maybe it was him I met.”

“Alfred,” which was also, unfortunately, his middle name.

She narrows her eyes at him again, “Not Daffodil?”

Jaskier snorts at the idea of his father being called as such, “No, that’s much too nice a name for the man.”

Marilka chews her lip and then spots his lute, “Do you still play?”

He gives up hope on trying to convince the poor woman that he doesn’t know her, “I do, I am famous across the land as the bard of the White Wolf himself.”

Her eyes go wide, “Geralt of Rivia? You know him?”

He grins, “I’ve been his trusty companion for nearly two decades.”

Marilka cocks her head to the side, “I met him when I was a girl, too. The White Wolf,” she says the name with gusto that makes him laugh, “It fits. Better than Butcher,” she adds sadly. “Play me a song, then, bard. You left before you could last time.”

Jaskier ignores her last remark and begins to pluck the opening chords of Toss A Coin.

* * *

Geralt slams the door of their room and sits on his bed, shoulders taught.

“She leave you again?” Jaskier asks pleasantly, plucking the happiest tune he knows.

It was always like this. They would run into Yennefer and Geralt would be absolutely besotted with her until they disappeared together. Jaskier would make himself busy performing or making friends he’ll keep for the week they stay that will forget his name when he goes. It’s better than being there whilst Yennefer insults him or seeing the dopey grins Geralt dishes out freely.

Jaskier knows he has no right to be jealous. Geralt was never his and he can smile at who he wants. But those smiles were meant to be his, gods dammit, and he never even got them in the first place.

And then, Yennefer will leave and Geralt will spend a week being grumpier than usual.

He feels for him, he does, he’s not entirely unsympathetic. But he also gets a bit of joy out of seeing that their relationship isn’t exactly smooth sailing.

“Fuck off, bard.”

“Uh-huh,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, picking up the pace of his song.

“Do you have to play so much? I’m trying to sleep.”

Jaskier scoffs, “If you want dinner and a room tonight, yes. Unless you think the little coin pouch you got for those drowners is enough to cover the finest inn in Hagge?”

He feels bad for bringing up the difference in their earnings but he is the one who pays for most of their lodgings and food. Geralt’s wages went to the upkeep of his armour, potions and swords. Jaskier thinks it’s because he views sleeping inside and a hot meal as something unnecessary.

“Hmm,” Geralt’s grunt is displeased but relenting. Jaskier will count it as a win.

* * *

Seeing Geralt and Yennefer together had probably made for the worst summer he’s ever had. Everything was an endless loop of seeing them, dealing with the aftermath of their fallouts and when Geralt finally begins to treat him as a friend again along she comes and restarts it all.

It’s draining and too much for him. He’s given up hope of ever not loving Geralt, no matter how much he hurts he’ll always come back. He has boundaries, though, and when he arrives in Cintra and Ciri runs and hugs him he decides to stay.

Ciri is his family, no double standards or conditions, just love. He’d even go so far as to say Eist and Calanthe were his family, too. He rarely saw them as King and Queen but Eist was fun to drink with when he got the chance and Calanthe would smile when she saw him play with Ciri.

Romantic love is an impossible future for him, but a family is something he has and he is never going to let go of it.

* * *

_He’s in a snowy field with Pavetta and Ciri, she’s younger and making snow angels. He remembers this day as clear as anything, even Pavetta’s laughter which clenches his heart._

_He lays in the snow, feeling the cold seep into his silks and make his clothes wet but he doesn’t care. He stands carefully and jumps away from his snow angel. Pavetta and Ciri are gone, he’s left alone in the snow._

_A large castle looms above him, it looks weathered and destroyed. The wind picks up and he holds his arms around his chest; he finds he’s not wearing any fine clothing, but thick wools and hardy materials._

_“There you are,” Geralt emerges from the snow and pulls him to his chest. He’s so warm and Jaskier sinks into the touch, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Geralt kisses the top of his head. “What are you doing out here?”_

_“Getting ideas for a sonnet about the place. It deserves one, don’t you think?” he replies, the words are not his own._

_Geralt guides him inside and the castle isn’t abandoned but lit by candles with a cold chill. “There’s plenty of holes in the walls for you to look out of,” Geralt chides, smiling all the while._

“Jas! Jas! Jas!” he wakes to Ciri calling his name and jumping on his bed.

His heart races and he can still feel the chill in his bones. “Ciri?”

“I played for Ela, she said she would be my best friend.”

His uneasiness dissipates at the sight of her joy, “That’s great, cub. Aren’t you meant to be in bed?”

Ciri shakes her head, and at a sterner look nods. “Fine,” she traipses away as if it’s the worst thing being asked of her. “Night, Jas.”

“Goodnight,” he calls after her and goes back to sleep. He dreams of Geralt, of him with Yennefer and shutting him out. And then he dreams of Geralt again, warm and inviting and kissing him; in the dream, he can almost pretend it’s real if it weren’t for the panic and confusion that lines the visions.

* * *

“Can you make a sleeping draught?”

Mousesack raises an eyebrow, “Not sleeping well?”

Jaskier nods, “Mostly. It’s not that I don’t sleep, I just have nightmares. Sometimes. A lot.”

He’s used to getting nightmares more in the winter, he had put it down to the change in weather not agreeing with him when he only rarely got them in summer. Now, summer is halfway gone and the nightmares are only getting more frequent.

Mousesack studies him and Jaskier shifts uncomfortably. He’s grown to consider the man a friend, he’s smart and also fun to get drunk with, it had taken a while because for a long time he had looked at Jaskeir like he’s doing now. Watching for something, waiting.

Jaskier has been stared at in a lot of different ways. Hatred by his father. Joy from his audience. Lust from lover. Envy from the husbands and wives of those lovers. What he had thought might have been love from Geralt. But Mousesack looks at him in an entirely different way, he can’t place what it is. Seeking, perhaps.

He’s seen it once before, in Filavandrel, and thinks maybe it’s just a magical person thing. Although neither Pavetta or Yennefer had ever looked at him like that.

“What are the nightmares about?”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth, the only person he’d told about the contents of his dreams was Geralt. “Why do you need to know?”

Mousesack shrugs, plucking an old looking book off a shelf, “It could reveal the root cause of the problem. Or, if certain divinations are to be believed, a foresight into your future.”

Jaskier thinks of the blade in his side and the burning streets, he’d rather that not be his future. “Let’s go with the first option.”

“Tell me, or else I won’t be able to make anything for you.”

Jaskier runs his hand over his face, “It’s not recurring, although some of them are. They’re not even scary, not always.”

Mousesack hums, gives him that seeking look again, “Why do you call them nightmares then?”

“Because they feel the same as real nightmares.”

“Real nightmares?” Mousesack asks, voice piqued with interest, “So you don’t think they’re actually nightmares.”

“What? No, I-“ Jaskier pauses, not sure what he thinks they are. He’d always called them nightmares, or strange dreams, what else could they be? “I don’t know. I just want them to stop.”

Mousesack puts a hand on his shoulder sympathetically, “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. Tell me, what happens in these dreams?”

“Things I usually get up to, camping with Geralt or running away from monsters but I know it’s not a memory of something I’ve done before.”

“Anything else?”

“I see strangers and I’ll talk to them without thinking. I’m aware it’s a dream in my mind but my body is reacting as if it doesn’t know, as if it isn’t mine.”

“Fascinating,” Mousesack whispers. He thumbs through a couple more books, mumbling to himself. “I can get you something by the end of the week. In the meantime why don’t you keep a journal of your dreams when you have them?”

Jaskier nods, glad that he’ll be able to stop them, “Thank you.”

“Any time, old friend.”

* * *

Summer in Cintra is a wonderful thing. The city is bustling with people and Jaskier can spend his day at the castle or with the commoners. The gardens are all in full bloom and he can enjoy the heat for a change because he doesn’t have to walk everywhere.

The draught Mousesack made for him ensures he has a dreamless sleep each night. It works for the most part, the odd nightmare slips through the cracks but he keeps them written in his journal along with rough sketches.

The back pages of his journal are now filled with drawings of that old crumbling castle, a black horse next to one that looks like Roach, and descriptions of battlegrounds. He can put a name to some of the characters in his dream, Geralt and Filavandrel, even Mousesack sometimes, other times he can only put ‘mother?’ next to a sketch of a woman who looks nothing like his own.

It makes little sense and he still has no idea what they mean, but they cause him less distress now that when he wakes he can focus on preserving them on paper before they fade.

Winter arrives again and Jaskier realises that he’s had an all round relaxing summer filled with love and laughter. The pining in his heart is stronger than ever, but the hurt that comes with it is blissfully missing.

* * *

Against his better judgement, Jaskier leaves next spring. Ciri throws a fit at the news, demanding why he wasn’t living there forever now, it takes an hour before he can calm her down. Her magic doesn’t make things go flying again which is the one good thing.

He runs into Geralt surprisingly quickly, barely outside the border of Cintra and nowhere near Oxenfurt where he says he stays each winter.

“Where were you? Last summer?” is the first thing Geralt says, there’s an almost wild look in his eyes.

“Why? Do you care? If you must know I was visiting family.”

“Lettenhove?”

Jaskier is surprised that Geralt even remembers where he’s from, then his stomach twists in panic that it all might come out. He hasn’t been back to Lettenhove since he got kicked out by his father. He hasn’t sent them any letters, nor has he heard from them. For all he knows, Lettenhove could have been wiped off the map and he wouldn’t be aware.

Ciri is his family now, and the rest of them.

“Uh, yeah. I ended up staying longer than I meant to when I went there.”

“Oh,” Geralt says quietly, soft and almost sad. Jaskier wants to reach out to him. “Do you miss them?”

“Yeah. I don’t get to see them a lot.” He only visits Cintra in winter and even then he’s mostly left to himself because everyone has responsibilities. Summer had meant he actually got to see them more than before.

It had also meant not seeing Geralt. Now back on the road with him, he wishes he didn’t have to choose, wishes Geralt would come with him to Cintra. Geralt is his family too, even if he isn’t Geralt’s.

* * *

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jaskier mutters when he spies Yennefer enter the tavern.

As if on cue, Geralt turns around and his eyes soften when they land on the sorceress. Jaskier digs his nails into his palms and curses his luck.

Yennefer walks over and takes a seat beside Geralt sitting much too close. Jaskier can’t keep the scowl off his face as Geralt and Yennefer completely ignore his presence to ask after the other.

Then Yennefer gracefully decides to cast some of her attention to him with a bored expression, “Jaskier, still here?”

Jaskier clenches his jaw, “Yennefer, still following us?”

Yennefer exhales through her nose, “I believe it’s you doing the following, bard, like a stray dog.”

“Yeah, well, you,” Jaskier flounders, “Look like a stray dog.” It’s untrue. Yennefer looks stunning, as always, whereas he has dirt still on his face from sleeping outside for the past week.

Yennefer only arches an eyebrow and turns back to Geralt.

“Right. I’m going upstairs. Goodnight,” he stands, leaving his half-finished ale on the table. Neither of them even look his way as he leaves to go to their room. He can’t stand to sit there for several hours while they ogle each other.

It’s still light out and he knows he should use the free time to compose or even find his own companion for the night. Instead all he does it climb into bed and put a pillow over his face to try and block out the light.

Geralt doesn’t come back to their room.

* * *

They are travelling close to Blaviken. Not too close, Jaskier understands that Geralt doesn’t want to visit that particular town. But it’s the quickest way to the next contract so they’re camped out in the woods a few miles from the town.

Jaskier has never travelled in this area before but the forest seems familiar. He assumes it’s because it’s a forest and there’s not really much distinction between one and another.

Geralt is being particularly grumpy with him lately. Ever since he met Yennefer. Jaskier scowls at the thought of her. He knew his feelings for the Witcher would never be reciprocated but their friendship had been growing deeper with each year spent in each others company. And then that witch came barrelling into their lives and it’s like he’s back at day one with Geralt.

It’s been a long two weeks since they left the last town and Geralt is the only person Jaskier has been able to talk to. Which included a majority of grunts in response or nothing at all. Geralt was the one always looking for peace and quiet but Jaskier is the one walking away from camp in search of it.

He can’t take a moment longer of Geralt’s silence. The silence of the forest is fine.

Jaskier walks until he can’t see their camp anymore. He knows not to go too far; he just wants to be alone for an hour. He stops in his tracks when he sees a lute lying in between the large roots of a tree.

It’s half-broken and rotting away. Moss has grown over most of it and half the strings are missing or snapped and curling in on themselves. It makes him sad to see it. He had left his own lute back at camp. Slowly he reaches towards it and picks it up. It’s half fused to the ground and when he pulls it up bugs scurry away from the sunlight.

The lute is in a disgusting state, truly. And Jaskier doesn’t know why he has the urge to take it with him.

He turns it over in his hands and brushes his thumb lightly over the remaining strings. The sound they make is shrill and he cringes. He wonders what misfortune led to the owner of what was clearly an expensive lute leaving it abandoned.

The back piece of wood has taken most of the damage and almost three-quarters of it is gone. But he sees something etched into the sodden wood along the top curve.

_Daffodil_

_Renfri_

He drops the lute as if it had burnt his hands.

Geralt had never told him about Blaviken in much detail. He knows more from the horror stories than what his friend had told him. He knows enough to know that Geralt was the one who had slain Renfri in the streets.

There’s a sudden ache in his heart. For the first time, it’s not for Geralt and the way his reputation has suffered since Blaviken. It’s for Renfri. It’s for this stranger named Daffodil.

Jaskier drops to his knees. The wet mossy floor seeps into his clothes and he’ll surely have grass stains that are impossible to wash out. He doesn’t care. His head is pounding against his skull and he squeezes his eyes shut.

His body doubles over and his fingers find the ground and squelch in the moss. There’s something hard beneath his fingers. He opens his eyes. It’s a ring with a black stone in it. The band is a little discoloured but the ring as a whole is in no state of disrepair. The pain in his head is sudden and overwhelming, he shuts his eyes again but it only grows.

_Brown eyes meet his own, cautious and eager. The ring is cold, he knows because he’s holding it in his palm, but the woman in front of him is holding it out. He takes it from her. Renfri._

_It’s Renfri, isn’t it? How could he forget? They were two halves of the same coin, they grew up together and raised themselves. Through thick and thin it’s always been them against the world, against Stregobor._

_Something slams him back into the tree, although he knows his body hasn’t moved from where he’s doubled over on the ground. He can feel the bark of the tree in front of him scrape against his back. He’s stuck, living both sensations and desperate to understand what it means._

_There’s a man in front of him and Jaskier panics. He shouldn’t have left camp, left Geralt. The man is a phantom though, the ground beneath him makes no sound as he parades in front of him with a knife._

_A knife he plunges deep into his chest and Jaskier chokes on the pain. The ring is in his palm. It’s meant to be on the ground. He slips it onto his finger, that’s also not right he’s meant to be hiding it._

Jaskier blinks as his mind settles. He’s still doubled over on the floor, fingers digging into the moss and the mud with the ring on his right ring finger. He clutches at his chest where the knife had pierced him barely seconds ago but there’s no wound and the pain is fading fast.

Shakily, he sits back on his heels. He looks at the ring, perhaps it was cursed or haunted. He had seen, had felt, a man die. He had seen Renfri. At least, a woman his mind had instantly pinned as her and something tells him he’s right.

He should go back to Geralt but anything Blaviken related is a sore topic. If Jaskier were to come back saying he’d seen Renfri in a vision Geralt would finally send him away for good. He swallows. No, he doesn’t need to tell Geralt.

It was like his nightmares. Strange and almost real but inconsequential.

Slowly, he gets to his knees. He places the lute back where he found it. He no longer wants to take it with him. On shaky legs, he finds his way back to camp and retires early to bed.

Sleep does not come easily. His mind runs over the images. Renfri. He feels there’s so much more that he should understand but doesn’t. Like a sonnet half remembered.

When Jaskier falls asleep that night he dreams of a young girl with brown curly hair and eyes to match. _Ren._ He plays for her and she hunts for him. He picks her flowers and she builds a campfire.

In the morning he pushes the dream from his mind. It had felt like a memory.

* * *

Whatever happened at Blaviken he can’t make sense of it. What he saw haunts him and his chest aches each time he thinks about it. Without Mousesack’s sleeping draught his nightmares come back.

Not as frequent as they had been, but once every month or two. Even scribbling out what happened and sketching them out doesn’t help put his mind at ease. Renfri is in his nightmares. Renfri and whoever Daffodil is, he thinks he’s seeing from his perspective.

He fiddles with the onyx ring he had taken. Maybe it was haunted and he’s seeing memories of the owner. Jaskier could ask Geralt, but that would mean talking about Renfri, or he could ask Yennefer and he’d rather die.

Mousesack might be able to help when he goes back.

Geralt is sat by his side carving out wood. Jaskier doesn’t know what he does with the little wooden trinkets he makes but he’s quite skilled. It’s delicate work, small and precise and seeing him so concentrated on something so fragile reminds Jaskier of why he had fallen in love with him in the first place.

For all his gruffness he was still soft, deep down. Jaskier had nearly let himself forget in the cloud of his unreturned feelings. Geralt does care, deeply and immensely, about strangers he saves and even more so about the people he keeps close.

“What are you looking at?” Geralt asks, turning his head to face him. He isn’t angry, just curious and amused.

“You,” Jaskier says, unashamed of his staring. He notices an eyelash on Geralt’s cheek and reaches out for it. His fingers brush against Geralt’s cheek as he takes the eyelash and holds it out on the tip of his finger, “Make a wish.”

Geralt leans forward until his lips are nearly brushing against his fingertips and blows softly. It’s whisked away and Geralt waits a moment to move back, a small smile on his face as he goes back to whittling.

Jaskier lets out a breath, his stomach doing flips and a blush rising to his cheeks. It was impossible not to love him.

* * *

The dragon hunt had sounded like the most thrilling thing he would do all year.

Dragons? A quest? A mission on behalf of the king? He could already hear the ballad.

Yennefer ruins that like she does everything.

Jaskier flirts with Borch’s warriors to distract himself from having to watch Geralt and Yennefer dance around each other up the mountain. At least Borch and the dwarves provide some entertainment, though it isn’t much. Jaskier’s heart feels like it’s breaking with each passing minute.

It is becoming harder to keep following Geralt. He loves him – more than he knows what to do with. Geralt is the only one who has ever made him feel this way for so long. 

Before the djinn, Jaskier had believed that maybe one day they could be something more. There were moments where he had sworn Geralt could feel the same way for him. The way Geralt would always save him from a fight, or end up holding him when they had to share a bed, or how he gave him the first bit of food when he hunted. Back then he had thought that one day it would be possible. Or, if Geralt insisted romance was no place for a Witcher, then Jaskier would be his faithful barker. But seeing him so devoted to Yennefer just confirmed his worst fears.

That he is inherently unlovable.

His has spent his whole life being a fleeting interest in the lives of others. He was not loved by his family. His friends rarely lasted more than the few weeks he kept their company. Lovers came and went faster than the set and rise of the sun. He had thought Geralt would be different.

His longest friend. He had spent twenty years devoted to singing of his heroics. And yet, Geralt still doesn’t even acknowledge their friendship.

Jaskier had fooled himself into believing that Geralt was just being gruff. That he was reserved and he truly did consider him a friend. Then Yennefer came along and he easily opened up to the mage.

That was when Jaskier realised he is truly unwanted.

And the worst part is that he doesn’t have the willpower to leave on his own. His stupid besotted heart won’t let him walk away. He can’t just leave. He can’t take back his heart and be on his merry way.

They’re all camped around a fire and Jaskier thinks this whole thing might be worth it to see Eyck shit himself. “Lady Yennefer, may I escort you to your tent?”

“Will you be joining me?” she asks in a sultry voice.

“My lady I would never degrade your honour in such a way.”

Jaskier snorts, “I hate to break it to you but that ship has sailed, wrecked and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.” He internally congratulates himself for his flawless delivery, he doesn’t even care when Geralt slaps his arm.

Eyck leaves and the conversation takes a turn towards politics and Nilfgaards rising power. Jaskier has heard all about it and seen for himself the increased guards and screening around Cintra.

Someone suggests that the southern kingdom will even take Cintra and Jaskier dreads the thought, “No. Queen Calanthe would die before letting them take what’s hers.” And he would die before letting them take Ciri, but he knows it won’t come to that.

The dwarves leave and he finds out dragons actually do exist. Geralt says they were too different to endure and have mostly died out, clearly talking about more than just dragons. It’s a depressing note to end the night on, even more depressing when he sees Geralt follow Yennefer to her tent.

Jaskier stays sat next to the burnt-out fire, the only light comes from the moon and the few lamps others have by their tents. He sings of his sorrow and the thoughts that have been creeping in long before they came here.

_Then_ _cut me to size._

_So tell me, love,_

_you make me your prize,_

_how is that just?_

_If I were a man of more mettle_

_If I were a man of resolve_

_I'd leave you behind_

_Get my fair peace of mind_

_From a bottle of grain alcohol_

_But I'm weak my love, and I am wanting_

_I'll welcome my sentence_

_Gorgeous garroter, jury and judge_

“A new song, Julian?”

Jaskier looks up at Borch who has walked up to him.

“Yeah, still needs some work. And my name’s Jaskier, not Julian,” he bites, he doesn’t need any more confirmation that he isn’t wanted on this quest than people not remembering his name.

Borch looks at him uncomfortably long, “Yes. My mistake.”

“Right,” Jaskier says awkwardly and goes back to picking the melody of his song. “Can I help you with something?” He asks when Borch makes no move to leave.

“You love the Witcher.”

Jaskier laughs. “What? Of course not. He’s just a friend.” The look in Borch’s eyes tells him there is no point in lying to him.

Borch looks at him with sympathy. Or perhaps it was pity. “You should tell him.”

Jaskier scoffs. That isn’t going to happen. There is no point in dragging himself through a pit of humiliation. He is trying to figure out a way to get over Geralt, not lay himself bare for a whipping. He wishes Geralt were crueller to him. Wishes that he would give him a real reason to leave. God knows he will never leave the man’s side if he doesn’t.

“Your heart will be lighter with the truth laid bare. I see a darkness in you, bard.”

“Right, well. That’s easier said than done, isn’t?” Jaskier stands up and gathers his lute and parchment. Borch says nothing in response and lets him go back to his bedroll.

Jaskier doesn’t sleep. Just across the field Geralt is nice and warm and in love with Yennefer. And here he is, cold and alone with only his lute for company.

* * *

“Come on, Jask, you got this,” he whispers to himself as terror grips his throat.

Yennefer shoves him forward and his heart stops. His breathing comes uneven and he can feel his heart beating and moving his chest outwards with each beat. He steps onto the planks and looks down at the drop.

He can’t even see the ground with all the cloud and mist gathered underneath them. Vomit comes up his throat but he swallows it down, not wanting to risk leaning over the side.

On shaky feet, he moves forward. The creaks beneath his feet give him no confidence and the wood only shakes and jolts when people join him. A beam gives out and for a moment he thinks he’s falling but his other foot is on a solid plank.

Jaskier holds so tightly onto the rope his palms start to burn. It’s the only thing keeping him up here. He needs to make it, for Ciri, no one would think to tell her if he dies up here.

Borch falls.

Geralt is holding him up and Jaskier can see the planks bending beneath his feet. For once, he and Yennefer have the same cause as they yell for Geralt.

Borch lets go and falls to his death with his companions.

Jaskier clamps a hand to his mouth in shock. He’s frozen in place. Yennefer gets Geralt to keep moving and has to put her hand on him too to spur him into action.

He watches his footing more carefully, not wanting to meet the same fate. He mourns for the old man – this was not supposed to be the end to his adventure.

Solid ground is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and he falls to his knees when he’s well away from the drop. He digs his hands into the ground, dirt collecting under his nails, assuring himself he’s safe.

Geralt goes to sit alone and Jaskier helps set up camp, which is laying out their bedrolls and collecting wood for a fire. After a while, he joins him and sits silently by his side. “You did your best, there’s nothing more you could have done.” He’s seen Geralt beat himself up over letting people die before and this wasn’t his fault, Jaskier isn’t going to let him brood over it.

“Why don’t we leave tomorrow,” he suggests softly, knowing Geralt must be weighed down by guilt and wanting off this mountain more than even him. “That is if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

All the way here he’d been struggling with the thought of leaving forever, for his own state of mind. He doesn’t want to leave, he just wants to be treated as worthwhile. If Geralt let them start over then maybe he could get that.

He thinks of what Borch had told him the night before, that he should tell Geralt how he feels. “We could go to the coast, get away for a while,” he starts, he’d always wanted to see the coast and a break from it all would be a good place to start.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums ever so lightly.

“Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it? Life is too short. Do what pleases you while you can,” he looks at Geralt waiting for a reaction. He’d basically confessed, called going to the coast with Geralt what pleased him because there was no reason other than being together. It’s Geralt that pleases him.

“Composing your next song?” Geralt brushes it off.

Jaskier swallows, “No, uh, just, trying to work out what pleases me.”

He couldn’t have been more obvious and now he has his answer. To make it worse Geralt leaves for Yennefer’s tent. Jaskier stays sat on the boulder looking out at the sunset. Damn his hopeless heart and damn his weak resolve. Whatever gods had cursed him to repeatedly screw himself over better have a good justification.

* * *

He wakes alone. He had been left behind. By everyone.

Had no one thought to wake him? Not even graced him with a kick to the shin to rouse him? He slings his lute over his back and grinds his teeth together. He hates this mountain. He should’ve let Geralt say no the first time and left town. Every day up here felt like a kick in the gut.

He follows the track the others had presumably taken.

When he finally reaches the top of the mountain the battle is done. He has no idea what happened. He spots Geralt and hopes he won’t be stingy on the details this time.

Borch and his warriors are alive and scare the shit out of him. The ballad will certainly be a legendary tale but his heart is doing palpitations at the sight of them. He sits while everyone fusses over the dragon teeth.

Geralt, Yennefer and Borch sit down. Away from him. He clenches his jaw until it hurts, he hadn’t even done anything to be ignored by the lot of them. Still, he waits and when the yelling starts he’s almost glad he’s not apart of their conversation.

Yennefer portals away and Borch retreats into the cave. Jaskier is more than happy for him and Geralt to start their descent down the mountain.

Geralt looks tense and he decides he needs a good distraction, if they go fast enough they might get back to the tavern before it closes for a drink. “Whew! What a day. I imagine you’re probably-”

‘Dying for a hard drink’ is what he doesn’t get the chance to say because Geralt rounds on him with so much rage in his eyes Jaskier stumbles backwards.

“Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it when I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s you shovelling it?”

Jaskier swallows at the harsh words. He doesn’t know what he has done to prompt this. “That’s not fair,” he argues weakly, he’s been the one getting Geralt out of his own messes. His throat feels thick like the djinn again but this time it’s the tears welling up inside him.

“The djinn! The child surprise! If life could give me one blessing it’d be to take you off my hands.”

Jaskier nods. “Right. Well. Right then.” He blinks away the tears. He won’t cry in front of him. “I’ll get the rest of the story from the others. See you around, Geralt.”

He turns and the hot tears fall across his cheeks. He walks past the dwarves who bare him no mind, walks down the track, walks past the camp and keeps going. Tears blur his vision but the track is easy enough to follow.

He had wanted his heart back, hadn’t he? He had wanted Geralt to be cruel so he could be set free. Now his wish has been granted.

When he finally stops crying, he realises he has no idea where he is. He is still following what looks to be the main path but he has no idea considering they hadn’t taken this route up here. Nobody has caught up with him so far which seems suspicious but he did have a head start.

His feet slow down. He knows he should probably stop and make a camp for the night but he had left everything he owned at the top of the mountain. His spare changes of clothes. His bedroll. His food. All he has now are the clothes on his back and his lute.

Instead, he keeps walking. He can walk through the night for all he cares. Anything to get as far away from Geralt as possible. The sooner he gets to town and leaves the better.

A part of him feels relieved. A small part.

A broken heart is easier to heal than an unrequited one.

When his legs burn and his feet are covered in blisters he finally stops. There is a little light left in the sky and he makes a small fire. His stomach rumbles but there is nothing he can do. He swings his lute to his front and begins to play softly. He tweaks the lyrics as he plays. When he gets to town he might be able to earn a few coins from his ballad of heartbreak before he skips town.

He doesn’t sleep and when the sun rises he wastes no time in continuing on his journey. He isn’t going to risk the entourage of people up the mountain catching up with him.

Roach is the first thing he sees at the base of the mountain and it takes all his composure not to cry again. He strokes her and brushes his fingers through her mane, finds an apple to feed her and presses a kiss to her snout.

“Goodbye, girl,” he whispers wetly. It will be the last time he sees her.

There’s a coach for hire and Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to use his coin for a ride to a few towns over. His heart is heavy and broken, and yet he feels almost free. He can move on now. He can finally let go of the fantasy he had held since he was eighteen that Geralt would be more to him.

Jaskier doesn’t need Geralt, he has a life without him, and now that life wouldn’t be burdened by him. He has his heart back, now. It might be in shattered pieces but it’s his again. And he can stitch it back together in Cintra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand we're officially out of series timeline (for jaskier, anyway) I gotta say I'm glad because working to a script that is already written is hard so I'm eager to get back to making up my own events lmao.
> 
> the song is a first draft of Her Sweet Kiss that someone found from enhancing a screencap on tumblr, thank you to Jkittycat for sending me the link: https://sootdust.tumblr.com/post/190602334348/the-witcher-fandom-trying-to-decipher-jaskiers
> 
> let me know what you thought! <3


	17. never really here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, i was meant to post this last Thursday but my sleep schedule was too messed up. Im hoping to get back to my usual monday/thursday schedule from now on! Hope you like this chapter! <3

Geralt waits at the top of the mountain until his ears stop ringing, until his heartbeat relaxes into its slow steady rhythm, and the tension in his shoulders drops. It’s well past dark but there’s enough moonlight to make it safely back to camp.

Camp which is now a clearing of kicked up dust and his bags sat there alone. At least the dwarves hadn’t stolen them. He looks around for Jaskier but finds no sign of him and the lack of his scent tells him he’s not been there for hours.

He rolls out his bedroll and sets alight to the campfire from the night before with ignii. The wood is already charred and burned so it only embers a little and gives a small amount of flames, not enough to cook and barely enough for light but it provides him with a little warmth.

The events of the day finally hit him.

He’d lost Jaskier. And Yennefer.

Suddenly, Vesemir’s teachings and the two decades of telling himself not to get involved seems pointless. He didn’t get involved with Jaskier, never even so much as kissed him and he still managed to fuck it up. If this is what he had wanted from the start, what was meant to be the best, then how come it hurts so much?

Geralt sighs as he looks at the stars, glinting and uncaring and thinks if Jaskier were here then he’d be waxing poetic about them. He knows he shouldn’t linger on him but he can scarcely think of anything else. Twenty years of knowing him means he knows precisely what he would say.

In all those years they’d had plenty of arguments, Jaskier always forgave him for it even when he shouldn’t have. He looks around the empty remnants of camp and hopes Jaskier made it down safely with the dwarves and that he’ll be in the village when he makes it down.

The next morning, Geralt slings his bag and his swords over his shoulders and then notices the extra bag lying on the ground. It only takes a moment to realise it’s Jaskier’s. He pauses, why would Jaskier have left his bag? Surely he hadn’t forgotten it?

He panics, what if Jaskier waited for him and left camp before Geralt arrived and got attacked. He could be dead while Geralt slept all night. Geralt hoists the bag onto his shoulder and treks into the forestry nearby hoping he doesn’t find his bard dead on the ground.

There’s nothing, not so much as a scent.

That doesn’t explain why his bag was left behind, it was his only one. All the way down the mountain, Geralt keeps watch for any signs of him but the ones he does only show a safe journey to the bottom.

Roach is waiting for him at the bottom and he strokes her neck, letting her calm him. She butts her head into his chest roughly and gives him a disappointed look.

“I know,” he sighs, attaching her saddle and the bags. Jaskier’s things are still in his saddlebag. His spare change of clothes, a variety of oils, even his journal. Geralt looks for the stable boy to pay his coin for Roach’s keep, “Have you seen a bard? Jaskier? Should’ve come down the mountain yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, sir Witcher,” the boy nods shakily, “He came by here, didn’t stop for long.”

“Is he in town?”

“No, he hired a carriage and left, sir.”

Geralt clenches his jaw and nods tightly before returning to Roach. So Jaskier had left him. Properly left him. It had happened before at Rinde but Geralt has the sinking suspicion that he won’t so easily be found this time. It’s what he deserves.

With a heavy heart, he sets off, the road much quieter. Even when he had travelled without Jaskier in the past it had never been this quiet; the silence is the same but Geralt knows that this time it wouldn’t be broken.

He realises that the next time he sees him will probably be in his next life. Then two things hit him at once. One, that next time he can’t let himself do this again, even friendship is too much so next time he will walk away before they even speak. And two, he might not see him again; he had wished to untie his destiny from him, Jaskier’s next life doesn’t belong to him anymore.

That’s a good thing, he tries to convince himself, it means finally he won’t hurt Jaskier. That’s all he’s ever wanted. He can be secure in the knowledge that Jaskier is out there somewhere, alive, and he won’t ruin it for him.

He should be happy, but he feels sick.

It takes a week for him to go through Jaskier’s bags. He wants to believe that it’s because he might find some extra rations of food, but as he traces his fingertips over the delicate silks he knows it’s a lie.

Geralt only takes the chemise at the top out, the rest of Jaskier’s belongings still packed safely away. He thumbs over the delicate material only now noticing the places where it’s been darned back together over and over. The stitching so neat and tidy it almost matches the original stitch work, the only difference being the slightly disparate colour of the dyes. Those steady hands had once stitched up his own skin with the same care and gentleness; Melitele knows that the wounds Geralt patches up alone scar twice as bad.

He brings it to his nose and inhales deeply, chamomile hitting his senses first followed by the more subtle notes of earth and wood. He tightens his grip on the fabric until his knuckles turn white. It’s a poor imitation, the faintest of residue of everything that is Jaskier but he’s lucky to have this to hold on to.

Geralt carefully folds the shirt and places it back in the bag, tying it tightly closed. Sleeping alone is difficult to get used to, he’s so accustomed to the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat and shuffling that its absence makes his skin crawl. As autumn draws on, he finds himself taking out the chemise when his loneliness is too much to bear and taking in the rapidly fading scent to calm his mind.

By the time winter approaches, it’s lost the scent of Jaskier. Geralt pushes it to the bottom of the bag and pulls out the next item of clothing, a blue doublet. He’s more sparing this time, only taking the doublet out when he can’t stand it anymore and only lets himself hold it for a few minutes.

It must look pathetic. A Witcher in the middle of the woods holding onto fine clothing tightly in an attempt to ground himself when he feels like the world is pulling him under. Geralt doesn’t care.

* * *

“What’s this?” Lambert picks up the bag that’s been tucked away in the corner of Geralt’s bedroom since he arrived.

“Don’t touch that,” he snaps, leaping across the room to snatch Jaskier’s bag from his brother.

Lambert holds his hands up, “Okay, okay. What’s in it?”

“None of your business,” Geralt wraps his arms protectively around the bag. Lambert raises an eyebrow and Geralt sheepishly puts the bag down as casually as possible. “Just my things.”

“Very convincing.”

“Shut up.”

Lambert walks past him and sits on his desk chair, leaning back so that he’s balanced on the bag two legs and dangerously close to breaking the chair or the back of his skull. “You’re moodier than usual, I don’t know why I hang out in here.”

“Me neither, I don’t invite you.”

Ever since they were children, Lambert would always barge his way into Geralt’s room. His favourite pastime seems to be being a nuisance to him. Lambert grabs an inkpot from his desk and begins throwing it and catching it. A disaster waiting to happen and Geralt doesn’t look forward to having another ink stain on his floor.

“You love when I come here.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” Lambert shoots him glare. “Why so glum, chum?”

“I’m not glum,” Geralt rolls his eyes, putting Jaskier’s bag back where it was and lying back against the headrest of his bed.

“Is it that sorceress you were shacking up with? Or the bard whose bag you have with you?”

Geralt whips his head to look at his and Lambert grins like the wolf who caught the canary.

“C’mon, you come back every winter smelling of either chamomile or flowers and shit. Not this year, apart from that bag that reeks of fancy soap. Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

Geralt sighs, “Good thing you’re not a genius then.”

“Fuck you.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Why do you assume I did something?”

Lambert shrugs, “Didn’t you?”

Geralt averts his gaze and he hears Lambert drop the chair down to sit properly and put the inkpot aside. He hates this. He hates that no matter what he does Lambert and Eskel always stick by his side. They’ve heard about all the times he’s fucked up and never hold it against him. They’ll call him out, tell him he’s an idiot, and then treat him the same as they always have. He hates it because he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

“It’s my own problem to solve.”

Lambert hums in agreement, “True, but you don’t have to solve it alone, you know? It’s not the Path up here, we’re not alone, we can help each other out.”

Geralt closes his eyes tightly, all he can see is Jaskier’s and Yennefer’s faces on that mountain; both holding back the tears they didn’t want to fall in front of him. “I don’t think this one can be solved.”

“Sometimes, Geralt, you’re your own worst enemy.”

He hears Lambert stand and hesitate by the doorway for a few seconds before he leaves. Geralt waits for several minutes before he gets Jaskier’s doublet. The bright blue so out of place against the dull tones of his room. Jaskier doesn’t fit in his life, he shouldn’t have been surrounded in all of Geralt’s darkness.

* * *

It’s nearly the end of winter. The snow falls less and less leaving the ground covered in thick and slippery ice. It’ll be a month before the mountain pass is clear enough to travel and Geralt isn’t sure if he wants to stay or go. Kaer Morhen means safety and the chance to ignore the reality of his life, it also means being trapped with his own thoughts with little to no distraction.

He’s worked steadily through the contents of Jaskier’s bag until all that’s left on his clothes is a faded scent. There is one thing left that he hadn’t taken out. Jaskier’s journal.

Geralt runs his thumb over the worn leather of the thick bound book. It’s one Jaskier’s kept for several years now and Geralt can only hope he doesn’t miss it too much. He intends to savour it, only read a few pages each night, but he can’t help turn page after page.

It feels like an invasion of privacy, which is silly because it isn’t a diary. It’s song lyrics and drafts and alterations, scribbled lines of poetry and bullet points about monster hunts. Geralt’s heard all the songs before, heard the melodies plucked and sung before they were even written down. Still, he feels like he shouldn’t be reading this.

From what he can remember Jaskier’s had this particular journal since before Rinde. It takes a couple of pages until the songs change to scathing accounts of witches and evil ladies that he can only assume are about Yennefer. It’s like reliving his life through Jaskier’s perspective, the pages changing with the seasons they travel together.

Songs about him and monsters are replaced by courtly tales of romances and princesses only to come back to himself. He bitterly reads the pages devoted to the Countess de Stael and the love she and Jaskier shared.

Geralt reads through the night until he’s almost reached the end and then something makes him stop.

It’s a sketch. Not an alarming thing in itself as there were plenty scattered through the journal already. What makes him stop is the familiarity of the sketch. It’s Kaer Morhen.

A half-formed version of it, messily drawn and a little rudimentary but undeniably the very keep he is in right now. It could be any castle but Geralt has spent two hundred years here. He knows that tower, knows where the walls stick out, where the door is. Most startling is the state of disrepair the castle is drawn in. There are large holes in the walls that had been patched up decades ago.

Geralt hasn’t ever described the keep and even old scrolls which may have contained paintings of the keep in its glory wouldn’t have the detail of the sacking. It’s impossible for Jaskier to have this information.

He turns the page. It’s Roach, or meant to be by the stripe on the horses nose, next to her is another horse. This one coloured in black and Geralt knows that it’s Salmon. His hands start to shake as he turns page after page. The entire last section of the journal is filled with sketches. Filavandrel in armour. Mousesack. Himself, with shorter hair. Sketches of people he doesn’t recognise, various women with ‘ _Mother??’_ written in Jaskier’s scrawl next to them. A young girl with rounded cheeks next to ‘ _Ren.’_

In between the sketches there are some descriptions. A battlefield and an account of men and elves with swords. Snippets of a young boy's play adventures. Several anecdotes about himself. They’re not prose, little more than bullet points and shorthand.

It’s not a tale, a fantasy or material for a song. Geralt knows with a sinking feeling that Jaskier remembers his past lives.

The journal falls from his hands and he presses the heel of his palm into his eyes. Fuck. How long had he remembered for? Why didn’t he tell him? Geralt’s breath comes in short pants as he wracks his brain for any indication that Jaskier remembered.

Maybe he’d always remembered and that’s why he followed him for so long.

Geralt grabs the journal again and flicks through the pages once more. The more he looks the more he realises the out of place details. The scattered way in which the memories are jotted down and the question marks littered over the pages.

The churning in his stomach settles as he realises that Jaskier mustn’t know for certain. At least, he can’t put the whole piece of the puzzle together. Geralt curses to himself quietly. He’d never expected to deal with Jaskier remembering his past and now wonders if he should have told him since the start.

One thing he knows for sure is that Jaskier will want nothing to do with him once he remembers fully. He’ll make it easy for the both of them and stay well out of his way until all they are to each other is a distant memory.

* * *

Staying away from Jaskier is easier than he thought it would be. There’s no word of the bard whatsoever, it’s like he’s dropped off the Continent. Geralt doesn’t ask after him but he doesn’t hear anything from him, not even any new songs apart from one called Her Sweet Kiss which was from last autumn.

Maybe Jaskier finally settled down, returned to the Countess or maybe he finally got himself killed. Geralt doesn’t like any of those options but it’s not his place to like or dislike what he does anymore. If it ever was his place.

He hears about Yennefer. Destiny and that damned wish pushing them closer together over and over. It seems she must hear of him too and leaves before they cross paths. Always two steps behind her if the lingering chaos and talk of a beautiful witch that meets him in towns is anything to go by.

Geralt tries to stay out of her way, too.

It gets harder to travel as the year passes by. Main roads all have checkpoints the further south he goes, Nilfgaard steadily making their way north and filling the kingdoms with fanatical thoughts and cheap beer. Even the northern kingdoms increase their efforts to police the movements of people. Guards block the entrances to most villages, if a hired mercenary or two can count as a guard.

He’s allowed in to deal with contracts and sees other travellers stopped at the borders to present papers. It’s easier to travel by back roads and smaller villages that have managed to remain out of sight of the brewing war.

Cintra is heavily guarded, but, ironically, has the least amount of difficulty to travel through. The villages are spread out in the surrounding areas and travelling there is the least hassle Geralt has faced in months.

And then at the Amell Pass he sees Nilfgaard making camp with a very sizeable army. No doubt heading for Cintra’s capital and Calanthe’s head. His Child Surprise.

A voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Jaskier’s begs him to go.

He will not claim the child. The Path is no place for a human, much less a child. The boy is still his responsibility, a promise made must be honoured after all. So, he will make sure that the prince is adequately protected for the oncoming attack and move on.

Geralt sends word for Mousesack to meet, the only man in Cintra he trusts and makes his way to the meeting place. It’s a dusty old cellar system on the outskirts of the city. He swore he’d never be back here but he’s done with the guilt of letting down person after person; by doing this he’s fulfilling his oath to the child and can start over.

“Out of nowhere, you send word to meet you. All this time I thought you were dead,” Mousesack greets him and Geralt thinks life would be too kind of he was dead.

“I told you last time I was in Cintra that I wasn’t coming back.”

“Yet here you are, why? You’ve come for your Child Surprise, haven’t you?”

“The opposite. I want you to tell me that he’s safe and healthy so I can keep on riding.”

Mousesack pauses, “He is a girl. Princess Cirilla has been raised by Calanthe since her parents died.”

“What?” he breathes. He didn’t know Pavetta well at all but she didn’t deserve to die; it was rare to find a human who could see past curses and monstrosities to see the man underneath. His stomach twists and he wonders if this was Destiny’s cruel hand forcing Cirilla towards him.

Mousesack asks why he thinks the princess isn’t safe and he tells him about Nilfgaard. The druids faith in Calanthe’s fortifications is almost laughable. The Queen is deadly with a sword but he’s seen the expanse of the army and knows it won’t be long until they’ve swept the Continent. They gain new followers with every conquered piece of land while the north only loses them.

He hears footsteps echoing through the tunnels. Assassins. Geralt isn’t surprised as he stalks through the winding cellars chasing shadows until he arrives back at Mousesack.

Geralt pulls his dagger from the side and holds it to Mousesack’s neck. It’s not how he wants to treat an old friend, especially after all the man has done for him. Yet he knows that it’s the only way to get them both out of here without them dying.

“If you want me you’ll have to kill him first,” he goads the assassins who begin revealing themselves.

“Geralt do something.”

“This will be on your Queen,” he keeps an eye on the men advancing towards him. Too many to kill on his own. Mousesack won’t kill them either judging by his loyalty to Calanthe.

“We will both die,” Mousesack begs.

“Blame destiny,” he pushes the blade harder to Mousesacks’s neck. The assassins draw nearer and finally, Mousesack conjures a portal and they twist out of existence.

Geralt staggers back when they land in a field outside the city in a mere blink of an eye. Bile rises to his throat but he swallows it down and shakes his head to dispel the dizziness. He hates portals and a druids portal is even less refined than a mage’s.

“Sorry for the knife.”

Mousesack huffs, “I’ll let it slide. Will you take Cirilla, then?”

Geralt readjusts his swords and begins to walk back to the city, Mousesack following after him. “I’m here to protect her.”

“Calanthe won’t let you take her.”

“If she knows what’s good for her she will.”

When they reach the castle, the guards look hesitant to let him in but Mousesack gives him clearance. He spots Calanthe in the courtyard making war preparations. If they’re still preparing then they are woefully unready for the scale of attack they are about to face.

Calanthe sees him then and pauses, her face sets into a determined hatred. “I warned you about coming back.”

Geralt knows that all she sees when she looks at him is a threat. It’s nothing new to be looked at in such a way except this is his Child Surprise’s life in a war, not a contract. “I’m here to protect the girl.”

Calanthe scoffs, “Who I’ve raised as my own. Why would I give my only heir to someone who never cared enough to come back for her? I’d sooner give her to the bard than you. Move along Witcher, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

Geralt sighs, Jaskier had bugged him to come back to Cintra all those years ago. A normal person would be remiss to hand a child over to a Witcher, never mind a Queen handing over an heir to such a mutant. He should have come back sooner, built more trust. There’s a lot of things he should have done.

Still, he won’t give up that easily. Cirilla is his to protect. “I can’t be bought, you should remember.”

Mousesack jumps to his defence and Calanthe resists further. Geralt is surprised to see the change in the Queen; she isn’t denying him out of a bullheadedness to prove her own strength but out of love to keep her granddaughter close. He can respect that, he’d do the same and has done his whole life in keeping Jaskier by his side time after time.

“If Ciri survives then Pavetta live on too.”

Calanthe swallows and nods, “The Law of Surprise has been called. I’ll tell Cirilla myself.”

* * *

Geralt waits outside in the hallway preparing himself to face the princess. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never spoken to royalty with the respect they wanted but it feels different this time. She’ll be scared of him and he doesn’t want that.

The doors open and he walks through slowly. The girl is say facing away from him but he can smell her fear from across the room. She rises and looks at him with big eyes. He can’t see much of Pavetta in her apart from her long blonde hair. “Pleased to meet you, princess,” he says as gently and as cordially as possible.

She says nothing, scurries back to Calanthe and asks to be excused. He wasn’t expecting her to be so timid. Raised by the Lioness of Cintra he thought she would be fierce and spoilt. Even Pavetta who had been on the verge of tears the entire banquet had been steady and fierce when the time came.

Then again, he is a Witcher.

Geralt takes the time he has to snoop around the castle. Something isn’t right here and he can feel it. He follows the corridors until he finds a door that leads outside. From there he can see Cirilla run up to a group of kids gathered in the courtyard to say goodbye.

Or rather, who he thinks is Cirilla. Because the girl he just met calls one of the other children Her Highness.

Calanthe had lied to him. The girl who is actually his Child Surprise is dressed in urchins clothes with her hair wrapped up, but her clothes still look cleaner than the boys. Before he can be spotted he marches back inside to find the Queen.

She’s unapologetic and refuses to give him the girl. Even Eist won’t let him take her.

When the gates come down around him and trap him he’s almost relieved. If he’s in the prison cells when Nilfgaard attack it’ll be easier to break out and save Cirilla than sneaking back into the city. Unless they kill him first, which Geralt also thinks is a likely option given Calanthe’s thoughts towards him.

* * *

It takes several days until the castle walls begin the shake.

Geralt has spent most of the time meditating. A few days ago he heard people leaving the city for war. Most haven’t returned. He can hear Nilfgaard breach the city and soon they’re at the castle itself trying to breach whatever spells protect it.

It’s easy to escape the cell. Laughably so. And his swords are kept right outside. It’s almost like they want him to escape. He’s only stayed for Cirilla but as he makes his way through the castle and finds dead nobles lying next to empty vials he realises Cintra was more prepared for invasion than he thought.

He finds his way outside, instantly jumping into action. The smell of freshly dead bodies and burning buildings sends him back to the sacking of Kaer Morhen. All those children who were his responsibility that he let die. He won’t let that happen again.

Ducking behind a cart to take cover he looks around to find an opening. A body lands a few feet in front of him. Not just anybody. Calanthe.

His eyes widen in shock that the Lioness would so willingly kill herself. If she is dead then there’s no one he trusts to protect Cirilla left in this city. With fresh determination, he goes back inside the castle.

If Cirilla is still here he will find her and protect her.

Geralt spots a Nilfgaardian and holds his sword to his neck, “Tell me what I want to know and you’ll live.”

“I’m already saved.”

“Where is Cirilla?”

“No one is left.”

He kills the soldier and he sinks to the floor. Geralt steps into the room that is surely the princesses but finds it empty. He ducks into every room he comes across in search of her but she’s gone. Nilfgaard has breached the castle fully now and he can hear them scouting for anyone left.

Moving silently and fast he makes his way down to the hidden side passage he first saw the princess from. The streets are still full of people but Geralt sticks close to the walls and manages to escape the city.

All he can hope is that his Surprise did, too.

* * *

Roach is still at the stables he left her in a few miles outside the city. He keeps close to Cintra for a few days. He has no way of tracking the princess but he hears Nilfgaard is still searching for her so he knows she’s out here.

He hopes that Mousesack or someone managed to get her out and to safety.

It’s late winter already, his breath steams in front of him and he should be well into Kaedwen by now. There’s no use in staying and searching with nothing to go on, so he makes his way back to Kaer Morhen. Slow and lingering just in case he hears word of the princess.

He’s in Sodden when he happens upon a graverobber. “I’ll winds follow grave robbers,” he calls out from on top of Roach.

“If I was a graverobber I’d be taking their belongings, Butcher.”

Geralt winces. It hadn’t taken long after Jaskier stopped travelling with him for the public to start calling him Butcher again. No more White Wolf. No more kindness or gratitude.

“If I was a Butcher, you’d be amongst the corpses,” he retorts before he can think better of it. He remembers back when he had told Jaskier that Butcher was right and wonders when he stopped thinking that.

His medallion hums and he can smell the sour notes of decay around them. Not from the bodies of the dead that the man is trying to organise into a neat line to pay his respects. Ghouls.

The man refuses to leave and Geralt nudges Roach forward, he’s too tired for a fight.

He only makes it a few paces before the guilt turns his stomach and he goes back. The man is surrounded by ghouls springing up from the floor. Geralt draws his sword and slashes at the creatures. They’re quick and jumpy and too many.

Geralt is lucky to slay them all. It comes at the cost of a bite to his leg. He can feel the poison working quickly through his veins. Roach is too far to get his potions. He sinks to his knees and shuts his eyes tight, blue eyes dance in front of him. “Jaskier,” he breathes, looking out at the darkness and realising he’ll die alone.

In a pile of dead bodies and dead ghouls in the dead of night. After never being able to protect the people he was meant to. “A fitting end, huh Roach?” he huffs, collapsing forward.

* * *

“You got bit, Butcher. You’re delirious. Be still. You must stay awake. You hear me, Butcher? Be still I said. We’re going to my farm.”

* * *

_He’s a boy, young and full of hope and wanderlust and adventure. He’s on the side of the road calling for his mother._

_He fights an imaginary beast with a stick and a bucket for a helmet on his head. His mother calls him for dinner and a young knight such as himself is starving. “Someday I’ll make you a necklace of dragon teeth. The prettiest necklace ever,” he promises._

_“No, we must live and let live. That’s our code. We have to cling to it, if we don’t the world descends into chaos.”_

* * *

“Woah, now. Don’t you move.”

Geralt squints but his vision is blurry. He can hear explosions in the distance and for the first time in his life, all his senses are muffled. He can barely tell what his immediate surroundings are.

The pain in his leg is still sharp enough to cut through it. “My bag, my bag!” he looks desperately around for his potions. The man passes it to him and he finds the Golden Oriole, drinking half the vial and pouring half onto the wound directly.

He hisses in pain and the world spins again. It won’t be enough. Kaer Morhen will have the resources to heal him. Vesemir will save him. He’ll save him like he did in the sacking.

“I need to go home,” he whispers as his eyes slide shut once more.

* * *

_He’s a boy and he’s in his mother’s cart asking every question he can think of. He wants to know everything about Spheres. He wants to travel the Continent. He wants to go on adventures, be a knight._

_He’s a boy and his mother asks him for water. He’s a good boy. He wants to make people happy because that’s how you get people to love you. He grabs a pail and races to the stream._

_He’s a boy and he’s on the side of the road and his mother is gone. He calls and calls for her. A man says he’s been waiting for him. He drops the water and runs but he doesn’t get far._

_He’s grown and the wound on his leg is healing. A sorceress has crossed his path and saved him. It’s his mother. Visenna._

_“It’s time for you to find what you let go of. Find her. Find him.”_

* * *

_He’s on the cart and Renfri is sat cross-legged next to him picking at bits of hay. She cocks her head when she sees he’s awake. “Did you do it? Did you find them?”_

_“No,” he breathes, frowning, “Renfri?”_

_“The girl in the woods? The boy in blue?” she prompts, “They are your destiny, Geralt.”_

_The cart jostles and his leg screams in pain again, “Not anymore.”_

_“They will be with you always.”_

_He looks at her again but she’s gone. His head rolls to the other side when the cart turns a corner and his gaze lands on Jaskier. He’s lounging on his left, propped up on one arm and face raised to the sun._

_It’s not Jaskier. His hair is slicked back and wears a beard. “Dandelion?”_

_“You’re awake,” he smiles lightly, voice low and silky. “Long time no see.”_

_“What?”_

_“Shhh,” Dandelion soothes, brushing Geralt’s hair off his sweaty forehead. “You grew out your hair. You look lovely.”_

_“’M sorry,” he reaches up a weak hand to grab Dandelion’s, “So sorry.”_

_“I know, I know,” Dandelion grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers. “So much has happened to you, my love.”_

_“Dandelion,” Geralt whispers again, eyes full of tears. He’s gone._

_He closes his eyes and lets the darkness consume him. The cart hurts his body as it bounces over rocks and uneven tracks. He won’t make it to Kaer Morhen. At least he saw Dandelion one last time._

* * *

_“Remember me I ask, remember me I sing,” a voice like honey coaxes his eyes open._

_At the end of the cart, a man sits with his back to him, legs dangling over the back. He has long hair and suspenders and a lute._

_“I remember you,” he whispers._

_Buttercup throws a smile over his shoulder and turns to sit sideways, one leg up on the cart with the other still off. “I’d hope so, I’m very memorable,” he winks. There’s blood across his chin and down his shirt but he doesn’t seem to notice or care._

_Geralt wants to reach out for him but his arms are too heavy, “Buttercup, why are you here?”_

_“Thought I’d pop by, pay a visit before the end. You’ll be joining me soon,” he says happily._

_“Good.”_

_Buttercup hums, “I’ve missed you. It’s boring without you for inspiration.”_

_“Where are you?”_

_“Around,” Buttercup smirks, “Did I ever really leave?”_

_He keeps singing, songs Geralt hasn’t heard in so long that his chest might just burst. Even if the song has a few heavy-handed metaphors for destiny in it._

_“Did you do it, Geralt? Live knowing you are loved?”_

_Geralt shakes his head lopsidedly, “’M not loved, Buttercup,” he slurs._

_Buttercup frowns and kicks his foot sending a stinging up his leg once more. “That’s not true. There’s still love out there for you. You just have to find them, Geralt.”_

_When he looks back he’s disappeared too._

* * *

_There's humming, a tune he doesn't know that he hears on the breeze._

_Geralt looks around but his vision is too blurry. There's a figure beside him. They're the ones humming. "Jaskier?" he asks but they pay him no mind._

_The darkness takes its hold before he can see who it is._

* * *

_He can hear the merchant talking to him but can’t make sense of the words. He looks at the sun but his eyes don’t burn, he can see the trees blowing in the wind but can’t feel the breeze. Maybe this is the end. He wishes it is._

_“Now, now, none of that.”_

_Where Renfri had sat is now Julian. Not an old man but greying in places and crows feet getting deep. “Julian?” he isn’t sure why now is the time all his ghosts have decided to take turns speaking to him but he can only hope it means he’ll join them soon._

_“Yeah, that, none of that.”_

_“Am I speaking out loud?”_

_Julian rolls his eyes fondly, “You don’t need to. I’m in your head, I can hear your thoughts. You can’t hide anything from me. We spent my life together, or have you forgotten?”_

_Geralt reaches out and puts a hand on Julian’s knee, “Never. Never forgot.”_

_Julian hums and reaches out to trace over the scars on Geralt’s face. “Never moved on, either,” he observes. Geralt leans into the touch of Julian’s hand. “Why not?”_

_“For the best.”_

_Julian tuts, “You know that’s not true. I told you to keep living your life and loving.”_

_“Only love you, Julian.”_

_“I know,” Julian smiles sadly, “I’m a ghost, Geralt. Your future is still out there. The people you love, whether you like it or not. You have to live for them.”_

_Geralt feels a hot tear leak down his cheek, “Should have gone with you. At the coast.”_

_Julian frowns, “No. That’s not your destiny.”_

_“Fuck destiny.”_

_“Call it destiny, call it purpose or doing the right thing. Your heart still belongs to people here, Geralt, you can’t leave them behind.”_

_Julian stands and Geralt reaches out desperately, “Julian, don’t go.”_

_“I was never really here.”_

* * *

He blinks and the sun burns his eyes. Geralt shifts to sit up more and his senses are gradually returning to him. “Where did they go?”

“Who?” The merchant laughs, “You called out for so many people.”

“How far to your house?”

“An hour, with a swift enough horse. I know I’m a merchant but I can offer you the Law of Surprise.”

Geralt scoffs, that’s what had gotten him into this whole mess. “Just give me an ale and consider your debt paid.”

The ride is even more agonising now that he’s more alert. He can feel every bump and hear all the explosions echoing across the land. When they veer off the main road he breathes a sigh of relief at the thought of a bed or at least a chair.

He hears the merchant greet his wife. He gives them their privacy until he hears her say, “I met a girl, an orphan, in the woods nearby.”

Renfri’s voice is clear as day in his head.

Geralt moves from the cart in a near trance heading to the woods. He can feel something pulling him closer and closer. She’s here, she must be. For four decades he’s been haunted by Renfri’s final words and now it’s here.

He spots a flash of blonde. Cirilla.

She runs towards him. No fear, only relief. He holds his arms out and she crashes into them. His destiny; something shifts and he knows that at last he’s done the right thing. He will protect her with his life. He will not fail her.

“People linked by destiny will always find each other.”

Cirilla looks up at him, “Who is Yennefer?”

Geralt sighs, “I’ll tell you later.” He leads her back to the merchant's house where they are fed and given a bed. He’s still weak from the bite but he won’t die.

* * *

They’ve almost made it to Kaer Morhen. By the end of the month, they should be safely in the keep, the cold is relentless and so is the Nilfgaard army. Every village they come to has an outpost and patrol even if their forces were significantly damaged at Sodden.

Geralt cuts Ciri’s hair so she is less recognisable and would, hopefully, be easily mistaken for a boy. She had been very upset at losing her long locks, and it reminded Geralt of being a child and having his own hair forcibly cut. After it was done, she quickly got over the loss of her hair.

“My head feels so light now,” she remarks as she eagerly bites into the rabbit he cooked for them.

Geralt can’t help the huff of a laugh that escapes him.

“I don’t remember when my hair was last cut, if ever,” Ciri continues, not bothered by his lack of conversation. She reminds him of Jaskier in a lot of ways which does nothing to help ease the ache in his chest.

Ciri runs her hands through her newly short hair and sighs, “It’s too short for braiding now.”

“You like it braided?” Geralt asks, his mind conjuring countless memories of a certain bard braiding his hair throughout his lifetimes.

“Oh, yes,” Ciri nods eagerly, “Do you know how to braid?”

“Not really,” Geralt shakes his head and Ciri deflates a little. He feels guilty at making her sad so makes the effort to keep speaking, “I always had someone else braid mine for me. A friend.”

“Me too. Where’s your friend now?”

Geralt clenches his jaw, “He left.”

Ciri frowns, “Why?”

“I was,” Geralt is silent for a long moment, “Rude. I sent him away when I shouldn’t have.”

“Will you see him again?”

Geralt feels his heart break at the questions, “No, probably not.”

Ciri watches him for a moment, “You want to see him again.” Geralt nods and she hums, “Then you will.”

He laughs bitterly, “You don’t know what I said to him.”

“Even still,” Ciri insists, “You’ll see him again. My friend said you have to let people go. You can’t make them stay and you have to trust they’ll come back.”

Geralt thinks it would take a miracle for Jaskier to come back to him now. “What happened to your friend?”

Ciri shrugs, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since last winter. He doesn’t live in Cintra all year so I hope he wasn’t there when,” she trails off.

Geralt curses himself once again for making her upset. “If he wasn’t there then I’m sure he’ll have survived.”

Ciri offers him a small smile, “I hope so, maybe I’ll see him again one day. I hope you find your friend.”

Geralt nods his thanks, “I hope you find yours, too.”

* * *

It’s two days later when they reach the next town. Thick snow is covering the ground which means they’ll need to travel faster if they have any chance of making the mountain pass. There are no Nilfgaard forces about, thank the gods, they can relax for one night.

The town is still fairly busy. Markets are still running as people store up for the long winter ahead. After they get find an inn and get a room Geralt will come back and stock up on food for the rest of their journey. His coin is running low but he isn’t going to risk a contract when he is the only one looking after Ciri.

Ciri has her hood pulled up and a flat cap over her head, with the mud streaked across her face she passes for a boy. Geralt is still obviously a Witcher, they have nothing to dye their hair with and his yellow eyes are a giveaway. He’s taken to carrying his steel sword at his hip and leaving his silver sword hidden as best he can amongst the bags on Roach. With his hood pulled up and over his face, the only people who immediately recognise him are those who get close enough to.

Neither of them has the best disguise, but it’s all they can do.

They’re halfway through the market street when suddenly Ciri is sprinting away from him.

Geralt’s heart leaps into his chest but she doesn’t go far.

“Jas!” She yells happily and collides into the side of a man in front of a stall down the street. The man sees who it is and envelops Ciri in a hug that lifts her off the ground and she holds onto him just as tightly. The relief on his face is clear as day.

Geralt should feel relief that Ciri is not all alone in this world. Instead, his heart has stopped and all he can feel is pain and guilt because the person holding her is Jaskier. He slowly leads Roach over to the pair, he doesn’t know what to say. All the millions of things he had planned to say to the bard if he saw him again vanish from him.

Jaskier places Ciri on the ground and catches sight of him then. Ciri turns to look at Geralt and is all smiles, she’s still holding onto Jaskier.

“Geralt! I found him! I found my friend!” She can’t contain her happiness, and despite the awkward atmosphere settling over him and Jaskier, they both crack a smile for her.

“Me too.”

Ciri looks confused and then connects the dots, “Jaskier is your friend, too?” She looks up at Jaskier for confirmation and he nods after a brief hesitation.

“I see you’ve both found your destiny,” Jaskier says and the sound of his voice is enough to make the air leave Geralt’s lungs.

He’s lived without that voice three times before. He’s relished in its return three times before. And somehow, it’s this time, the shortest time and the one occasion when he wasn’t even dead that had hurt the hardest. And hearing it again when he thought he would never have the privilege to is enough to send his practised apologies out the window. They don’t seem good enough anymore.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks after a moment of silence.

Jaskier bristles, “I was just stopping by, trying to find a nice place to stay over winter. I won’t be here for long.”

“Why aren’t you where you usually are for winter?” Geralt had expected Jaskier to be in Oxenfurt for winter as he always did. And Oxenfurt was nowhere near this village. If he didn’t have Ciri with him he’d offer to travel with him to the university like he did every year.

“Don’t be silly,” Ciri scoffs, “He can’t go back to Cintra.”

“What?” Geralt blinks rapidly. “Cintra?”

“Jaskier spends winter in Cintra, with me. That’s how I know him.”

Jaskier is wide-eyed and sheepish. He laughs awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck.

“You told me you went to Oxenfurt?” Geralt accuses, he knows it’s the wrong thing to do. He’s spent the past year planning apologies, preparing to commit to being a good friend. He doesn’t need to be blaming Jaskier for more things but he’s hurt that Jaskier has been lying to him for the past decade.

“Right, yes, well. I’d spend a week or so there and then pop up to Cintra, to, uh, check on things,” Jaskier stutters out not making eye contact.

Geralt understands well enough that Jaskier had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on his Child Surprise when he himself was ignoring that duty. A part of him is thankful because of course it’s such a Jaskier thing to do. But that part is shadowed by the part of him that feels betrayed by the fact that he’d been lied to. For ten years Jaskier had made up stories of his winter in Oxenfurt.

“Will you be coming with us?” Ciri asks Jaskier.

Jaskier darts his eyes to look at Geralt and then back to Ciri, “I don’t think-"

“Of course he is,” Geralt cuts him off and Jaskier’s face scrunches in confusion. “If you want,” he says with less force.

Jaskier licks his lips nervously, he looks like he wants to say no and run away and Geralt doesn’t blame him. Ciri is still holding tightly to Jaskier, and there’s no way she’s letting go any time soon. Geralt is quite sure that if Jaskier says no she’ll have half a mind to go with him instead.

Jaskier looks at Ciri’s hopeful face and his resolve crumbles, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll come too.”

Ciri’s face lights up and Jaskier sends a large smile her way. When he looks back at Geralt it fades and they say nothing else to each other whilst they walk to the inn. He still smells the same, chamomile and wood and earth. It sends warmth spreading through Geralt's heart and he knows he has no right to take comfort in Jaskier’s presence when his own is clearly causing the other man distress.

He can smell the sadness rolling off Jaskier, it’s not as strong as the mountain, but it’s steady. Guilt swells in his chest but he doesn’t know what to say. He just hopes that with time Jaskier will forgive him and it will all go back to normal.

Geralt wants to ask about the journal. About the memories. Except, he can’t even find the words for an apology for the mountain, so holds his tongue. There’s plenty of time for both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I couldn't go too long having Geralt and Jaskier separated! 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr @pansexualbuchanan if you want :) Let me know what you thought <3


	18. damn near perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i lied about posting on Thursday again, sorry for the delay! hope you enjoy <3

Jaskier makes it to the Pontar river before his coin runs out and he can no longer afford a carriage ride. It had been worth it to get so far away from that mountain in only two days but now he has nothing. He has his lute and nothing else, his bag with his spare clothes and journal had been left at camp. He really should play for more coin, but the handful he has left is enough for a night of cheap ale if nothing else.

So, he is drowning his sorrows. His heart aches and if he thinks about it too much he can feel his eyes start to sting with fresh tears. He wants to scream and rage at the world that passes by. What do the people laughing at that table over there have to be happy about? And part of him wants to laugh with them. His chest convulses and he doesn’t know if he will start sobbing right there or laugh like a mad man.

Amongst all his sorrows, he feels better than he has in years. His sadness isn’t that same ache that had made it’s home inside him anymore. It’s fresh, cutting to the bone and stronger; but Jaskier knows that this is a pain he can move on from.

For so long his heart had belonged to Geralt, now it was his again. Broken and torn but his and it could mend.

Jaskier can feel eyes on him. He looks up and meets bright orange eyes staring at him. Not the yellow of a Witcher’s eyes but something deeper and darker. A mage. He can’t detect chaos but he doesn’t need to. He can tell she’s no noble lady and yet she holds herself like one. He’s been around Yennefer enough to spot a mage when he sees one.

“What do you want?”

The mage walks towards him calmly and takes the seat opposite, “My my, I never thought I’d see you again.”

Jaskier squints, “Have we met?” he definitely doesn’t remember her and she seems very memorable. And yet, there is something familiar about her that he can’t place.

“Do you not remember me?” she sounds almost offended, even if her face betrays nothing.

Jaskier snorts, “I’ve had enough of mages. Don’t care to know or remember any more.”

The mage considers him and Jaskier downs his drink. With a twirl of her fingers the beer refills, Jaskier toasts his thanks and drinks some more. “I suppose we did meet when we were rather young.”

Jaskier nods slowly, “Ah, well, sorry I’m terrible with faces.”

“And what about names? Surely you remember mine, Dandelion?”

Jaskier snorts, “That’s not my name. Close though.”

“Yes, it is,” the mage responds quickly, “I remember the names and faces of all my tormenters.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Okay. Well, sorry to burst your bubble but my name is Jaskier. Had it since I was born forty years ago.”

“My name is Anathea,” she says, clearly awaiting a reaction. He gives none and her expression turns sour.

He feels a tickle in his mind. Yennefer’s read his mind to expose his thoughts for a cutting remark enough times that he knows what’s happening and he doesn’t care enough to fight. He finishes the beer; he’s lost track of how many he’s had. It refills again. The tickling goes deeper than he’s used to and then retreats.

There’s a strange look in Anathea’s eyes but she no longer looks testy. “Jaskier. Yes, my mistake. I thought you were someone else.”

“Happens,” Jaskier mutters.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a moment.

Jaskier shrugs, “Nothing to be sorry about.”

Anathea bites her lip and nods. “Very well, excuse me.”

She stands and leaves with a flourish of skirt and he hears exclamations of surprise from outside the tavern when she has no doubt conjured a portal. Jaskier finishes his beer and realises he is officially out of coin.

He stands with a stumble as the world suddenly goes fuzzy. He blinks away his dizziness but his eyes can’t focus on much with alcohol clouding his brain. He stumbles on shaky legs towards the door; hopefully he can make it to a nice tree to sleep against for the night.

Jaskier crashes headfirst into a man and stumbles back but gets caught by him. “Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he mumbles.

“Hey. Ain’t you that bard? Jaskier?” the man asks, still holding onto his arms with a firm grip.

Jaskier tips an imaginary hat, “At your service. I’m a bit too drunk to perform.”

The man chuckles, “That’s not what I want from you.”

He looks at the man holding him upright, a little taller than him, bald and overweight, “What do you want from me?”

“Your company.”

Jaskier steps backwards and the man releases his grip, “Sorry, ‘m currently mending a broken heart.” He leans back against the wall and lets his head roll back to hit it, he really should have eaten something before he drank.

“Not that kind of company. You’re one of Oxenfurt’s most famous pupils.”

“Didn’t even graduate,” Jaskier laughs dejectedly.

The man shrugs, “Even still. Bard of the White Wolf, has played in more courts than most.”

“How do you know so much about me?”

“I work at the university.”

Jaskier scrunches his nose at that, “Isn’t it term time?”

“We’re only a half hour from the city.”

“What really?” Jaskier drops his head forward and his balance shifts so he nearly goes toppling again. The man catches him once again and props him against the wall.

The man nods, “I can get you a room, if you want. I’m Sigismund.”

Jaskier nods, a bed sounds like heaven right now. The man slings his arm around him and leads him outside. There’s already a carriage waiting and they shuffle in. He can hear Geralt’s voice in his head admonishing him for letting strangers take him somewhere but his eyes are drifting shut and he doesn’t care.

Sometime later, Sigismund is shoving him awake and leading him through what is definitely Oxenfurt. It looks mostly the same as what Jaskier remembers and the university hasn’t changed much either. He gets led past all the admin offices up to a floor he never knew existed; it’s a fairly big room with a few tables and chalkboards but much less than the average classroom had. There’s a separate room that has serval beds lined up, not the typical lecturers quarters either.

“What did you say you taught, again?” Jaskier asks, flopping down onto the first empty bed.

“The most contemporary history,” Sigismund chuckles, and that’s the last thing he hears before he falls asleep.

* * *

_Jaskier is on that mountain. It’s only him and Geralt. Geralt whips around, anger in his eyes and Jaskier already knows what he’s going to say. Except his hair starts to shrink into a short blonde and his face contorts and twists until it becomes someone else's._

_“If destiny were to bless me, she would have you perish in battle today so that my only true son might take the throne.”_

_Someone grabs his shoulder and spins him around. It’s Geralt again, except he looks younger. Softer. His eyes are kind and there’s a tender smile on his face. Jaskier relaxes at the sight but then Geralt tuts, “Dammit Jaskier,” he says with disappointment and shakes his head. “If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands.” Geralt speaks softly, chiding, with none of the anger but overwhelmingly condescending._

_The man behind him continues to yell over and over and Geralt begins to repeat himself. Anger seeping into his voice with each repetition._

_Jaskier puts his hands over his ears to block out the sound of them but it’s no use. He knows. He knows he’s a burden. He knows he’s useless. Why won’t they stop?_

_“Stop,” he sobs but they only get louder. “Please, stop.”_

* * *

“Hey, hey wake up, you alright?”

Jaskier blinks awake to see Sigismund over him. His head is pounding and he doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the dream. “Yeah, I’m fine. Bad dreams, I get them a lot.”

Sigismund nods and sits on the bed opposite him. Jaskier massages his temples to try and ease his headache but it’s no use. He doesn’t even have his journal to try and draw the other man he saw.

“Tea?”

Jaskier nods blearily and closes his eyes, listening as Sigismund leaves the room and makes them some drinks. It’s strange being in Oxenfurt, he’d never stayed longer than a few hours after Geralt escorted him there before he set off for Cintra. He needs to stop thinking about Geralt.

Sigismund comes back with a steaming cup and Jaskier takes it gratefully. The hot water burns his tongue but it sobers him up and the headache gradually leaves. “Thank you.”

“No problem. So, what courts have you been in lately?”

“Um, Countess de Stael’s, and Cintra’s sometimes.”

Sigismund eyes light up, “That’s good.”

“Uh yeah, I suppose,” Jaskier sometimes forgets how renowned Cintra is. To him it means Ciri and family, not furthering his career. Calanthe has him play often enough but he’s certainly not the only talented bard to grace her court on a regular basis.

“Tell me about it.”

“Eh, it’s not all that great. Most of the nobles are a bit stuck up,” he jokes. Had it been another time he’d easily spin stories about the wonders of court, but right now he just wants to get home. He just wants to see Ciri and Mousesack and Eist.

He wants to sleep on a bed and not worry about getting rained on or if a rock is going to make his back hurt for a week. He wants to spend his days surrounded by his friends, his family, and not question if they want him there. He wants to forget about all the pain.

Maybe he could even find someone new to love. He’d turned down many offers in Cintra in the past. It wouldn’t be so bad.

“You know quite a lot of nobles, don’t you?”

Jaskier nods, “I know of them, they like the idea of me performing for them. I’m only close to a few people.”

Sigismund hums, “Where are you headed now?”

“Cintra, I usually go every winter but I thought I’d go earlier this year.”

Sigismund asks a few more questions about court life until he finally lets him go back to sleep. In the morning, Sigismund gives him a handful of coin and sends him on his way. Cintra is within his reach.

* * *

The city is bustling when he arrives, the last of the summer markets flooded with people as they all try to stock up or sell their wares. The crowd sends a spike of anxiety through him but it’s nothing in comparison to the sheer relief that settles over him.

He can heal here. He can live out his life until he dies an old man.

The castle is within sight when there’s a flurry of movement racing towards him. A flash of brown and a small body collides with his own. For a second he thinks he’s being mugged by a street urchin and yelps.

“Jas! What are you doing here?”

The small person holding onto him is Ciri. Jaskier sweeps her up into a hug and spins her around. “I missed you too much to stay away,” he says as he sets her down. “Who let you out of the castle?”

“No one, officially,” she grins.

Jaskier narrows his eyes and hums sceptically, “It was Eist wasn’t it?”

Her widening smile is enough to know he’s correct. He spots the group of children she had run from set up on the street who are looking at him curiously. “They know who you are?”

“Not yet,” she whispers, “I’m learning knucklebones.”

Jaskier nods seriously, “A noble venture. I’ll see you later then, alright?”

Ciri looks torn between him and her friends but nods and joins them again. He hears them ask her who he is before he makes his way further into the street so her friends don’t see him go into the castle. Ciri had always made a habit of befriending the common folk, preferring to spend time with Ela the kitchen maid than the other noble children. Now it seems she is branching out beyond the castle and he doesn’t want to ruin anything for her.

He already feels lighter after seeing her. A small stitch piecing his heart back together. The castle is busier too; there’s plenty of people walking around, both nobles and servants alike. From the appalled looks he receives he realises how bad he must look.

He’s still wearing the red outfit from the dragon hunt, and even then he’d been wearing it since the day before they started. He hasn’t had a bath in close to two weeks and now that he’s aware of it he can feel the dried dirt on his face and hands itching his skin. It’s a wonder they even let him in the castle.

Mousesack is the next person on his list to seek out. Hopefully the druid can find him a room and make a sleeping draught, the nightmares had come back since he left. He finds the man in his laboratory, a room filled with plants and vials and bottles.

He knocks on the door and Mousesack jumps at the noise, spinning round and then relaxing at the sight of him. “Ah, Jaskier. What brings you to Cintra so early?”

Jaskier walks into the room, “My travels ended early this year.”

“Geralt get too much for you?” Mousesack chuckles and Jaskier remembers he was Geralt’s friend first. “It’s easy to grow tired of his sourness,” there’s so much fondness in his voice that Jaskier grits his teeth in anger. He used to be fond, too, now he realises he couldn’t be fond if he tried. Sourness was putting it mildly. “Tell me, how is he?”

“Oh, he’s doing just fine,” he can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice and winces. His opinion of Geralt may have turned drastically but Mousesack can make his own opinion.

“Lovers quarrel?”

“Something like that.”

Mousesack nods in understanding, “Has he shown any sign of interest in his Child Surprise?”

Jaskier scoffs, “As if he’d take responsibility for his actions.”

“I think he feels more responsible than you know,” Mousesack disagrees and Jaskier thinks that his twenty years of travelling with him might just make him a bit more knowledgeable, thank you very much.

“Oh yeah, and how would you know?”

Mousesack smiles sadly, “It’s not my place to say, but I know he feels incredibly responsible for those in his life.”

Jaskier hums noncommittedly. As far as he’s concerned, all he’s ever seen Geralt do is avoid responsibility. Yeah, he’ll rush into danger to save a life and then do nothing to care for it after. He doesn’t know what happened between him and Yennefer but he saw her leave in the same state he did. Geralt’s responsibility doesn’t stretch beyond his crippling White Knight Syndrome.

“I was wondering if it was possible to get more of that sleeping draught?” he changes the topic, taking great interest in looking at all the plants instead of the druid.

“It is, I’ll make one up for you before you go.”

“Will it be possible to get a more constant supply of it?” Jaskier asks carefully, running his fingers over the leaves of a plant draping from a shelf next to him.

Mousesack hums in confirmation, already moving around the room collecting herbs, “It shouldn’t be a problem. Planning on staying a while?”

Jaskier nods absently, “As long as there’s room for me.”

It would be all to easy to lose his place in Cintra. He’s not a noteworthy noble nor Cintran born, all his value here is placed on his career; if someone comes along more talented or Calanthe grows tired of seeing him around she could easily kick him out. And then he’d have nothing.

“Are you alright?”

Jaskier smiles brightly, pushing his face into all the right places, “Of course.”

Mousesack sighs heavily, “How have the dreams been lately?”

Filled with Geralt. And other distressing images. Since the mountain, he’s been afflicted by them every night, no longer waking from them until the morning. Where before some of them had only been confusing, neutral situations or even kind ones, all they are now is horrific images.

A man beating him with a belt, a monster throwing him through the air, lungs coughing up blood. All the while the words Geralt had last said to him repeating over and over.

“They’re getting worse.”

“In what way?”

“Every way. I just want them to stop.”

Mousesack looks over his shoulder as he begins to grind together the herbs into a paste. “Have you figured out what’s causing them yet?”

“No,” he says glumly, if he knew then he could stop them. “Probably just wishful thinking, or paranoia I suppose.”

“Perhaps,” Mousesack agrees hesitantly, depositing the herbs into a vial and shaking it with water. “Here, for tonight. I’ll make a bigger batch soon.”

Jaskier takes the little vial like it’s the only lifeline he has. “Thank you.”

* * *

He gets given a room and a bath. He sinks into the water and lets the past two weeks wash off him. The hot water soothes his muscles and he finally washes off all the dirt caked into his skin.

This is his life now. A bath whenever he wants. A bed every night. No more worrying about if he’ll get a hot meal or enough coin to get by. Security, safety. It’s something he’s never really had since he left home.

Geralt had always managed to provide for them by hunting, even if it was mostly Jaskier’s coin they used in towns. But even on the road there’s always danger no matter if you have a Witcher for company.

He thinks back about all those camps they made and meals shared and wonders if Geralt did it out of pity. Hunted because he had to. Shared because he believed Jaskier couldn’t provide for himself. Kept him as a travelling companion because he felt _responsible_ for him. He wonders if he was just a burden the entire time.

One blessing. Jaskier doesn’t need to wonder to know that he was a burden.

The water is hot enough to burn and Jaskier scratches at his skin to get every last trace of his past off himself. He sinks under the water and places his fingertips against the side of the bathtub. The wood is smooth under his fingers, he digs his nails into it and opens his eyes. He ignores the burn of his eyes and watches the water above him flicker and reflect the candlelight.

It would have been so easy for Geralt to cut ties with him sooner. He could have told him to stay away years ago. Back when Jaskier still had the best years of his life left ahead of him.

A heartbreak then would have been a small blip in a lifetime. What does he have to look forward to now? He’s forty years old. Most people are married with children by now. His place as the best bard on the Continent will be threatened by some uprising musician with a muse who loves them back.

His lungs start to burn and he contemplates letting the water fill them. Sinking down into nothingness. He’s wasted his life chasing a fantasy; he has no worth here, and soon people will realise that. Where will he go then? Back to Lettenhove to beg for a place or to some twopenny King’s court or even a travelling bard hoping for enough coin for an ale.

Jaskier’s stomach convulses with the urge to take a breath. All he has to do is let the water in. He sits up quickly, gasping for air. He can’t. He can’t.

He pulls at his hair and sobs and screams. How dare he. How dare Geralt take his life from him. How dare his eighteen-year-old self have been so stupid to willingly give it over.

Yellow eyes flash through his mind. Eyes that he had once loved and yearned for and now all he can feel is hatred.

* * *

There’s a fresh pair of clothes when he gets out of the bath. A simple navy doublet and trousers roughly in his size. He’ll need to buy some more once he has the coin.

On top of the folded clothes is a note.

_To the bard Jaskier,_

_You are requested to play in the court of Her Majesty Queen Calanthe tonight for the sum of 100 crowns._

There’s no signature but he recognises Eist’s handwriting. The clothes must be his too. Clearly Mousesack has told him about the state Jaskier turned up in. It feels a bit like charity, he never usually gets paid this much in the winter but he’ll take it.

Her Sweet Kiss had been a hit in the taverns he stopped at on the journey. The heartbreak had been fresh and full of pain, earning the audience's sympathies. Now, as he plays for the court he lets the desperate anger seep into his voice mixing with the despondency. It might be his best performance yet.

Jaskier is glad for the ban on songs about Geralt as it means no one can request it. He plays a few more sad songs until Calanthe shoots him a look exactly like the one at Pavetta’s banquet to stop all the maudlin nonsense.

As he dances around the room to the tune of a jig and people all clap and sing along with him he can forget. Forget all his pain and rage. He’s no longer just Jaskier, unwanted and cast aside, he’s _Jaskier_ the best bard on the Continent.

* * *

Jaskier moves his fingers through Ciri’s hair, collecting strands and pulling them into place into a long braid. “Are you here to stay this time? You’re early,” she asks, turning her head a little but he gently manoeuvres her forward to not disrupt the braid. It’s been a month since he arrived and Ciri has been careful not to ask after his sudden appearance.

She’s wanted to, the question at the tip of her tongue but never doing so. Maybe she could see everything inside him bubbling at the surface. She had asked for lute lessons, told him about her knucklebones friends or asked him to braid her hair. Clearly, she can’t hold back her curiosity anymore.

“I think so,” he swallows, “Nowhere else for me to go.”

“What about where you go over summer?”

“I’m not welcome there anymore.”

Ciri is silent for a long time and he thinks she’s dropped it but then she pipes up again, “How come? What happened?”

Jaskier sighs, tying a ribbon at the base of her braid to secure it in place. “I wasn’t wanted anymore. If I ever was.”

All that anger he had felt when he first arrived has slowly ebbed away. Piece by piece he let go of the resentment until he became resigned to what happened. There was no changing the past.

He mourns those early days when he was young and naive. When he thought Geralt might one day feel the same; the good times they had shared, the times he had made Geralt laugh or they looked after each other. Maybe his memory was coloured by nostalgia but he misses it. Misses what they had before it all went to shit. If they ever had anything.

Ciri whips around, mouth agape, “Who wouldn’t want you? You’re the best.”

He laughs and shakes his head, “At least you appreciate me.” He wonders how long it will be before Ciri grows up and realises like all the rest of them that he isn’t worth having around.

Ciri frowns and looks like she wants to say more; if she were younger she would have, but at eleven her royal manners are already holding her tongue. “Of course I appreciate you, you’re my best friend.”

“I thought Ela was your best friend?”

She nods slowly, “She is. You can also be my best friend, then. I can have two.”

Jaskier grins, “Thank you for the honour.”

* * *

_"If destiny were to bless me, she would have you perish,” the thin blonde man spits, raising a belt to him and smacking it down onto his back. Jaskier squirms under the main but he’s too small to stop it._

_His back stings with each lash until it goes numb. He can only hear the whip of the belt as it flies through the air._

_Risking a glance behind him, the man is gone. In his place is two men swinging swords at each other with such speed he can hear them moving the air. One of them is Geralt and the other is another Witcher. Jaskier looks around him at the crumbling castle._

_Snow falls thick. He blinks and the castle is replaced by a manor sat in the middle of an estate. He’s overcome with the feeling of loneliness. He walks away from the manor but doesn’t seem to get any further away no matter how hard he tries._

* * *

He’s not performing tonight. There’s some up and coming bard from the east who has the honour of playing at the last of the season banquet. He watches as they play the lyre and lead the hall in all the classics. A few songs of their own are thrown in but they’re not as well known.

They look ecstatic, practically drunk on the attention. Jaskier must have looked like that once.

“Shame we don’t get to hear you play,” a man joins him, leaning on the wall next to him where Jaskier has chosen to spend the night.

“Can’t hog all the fanfare.”

The man chuckles brightly. He’s about the same height as Jaskier is, more broad at the shoulders but not overwhelmingly muscular. His hair is a dark brown that curls on the top of his head and Jaskier runs a hand through his own hair that has grown longer in the past few weeks.

“I’m Dawid,” the man holds out a hand for Jaskier to shake, his hold is firm and lingers for a second before releasing.

“Jaskier, but I suspect you already know that,” he smirks.

Dawid laughs, “I do, I’m not some crazy fan or anything. I’ve seen you around. You’re very talented.”

Jaskier ducks his head, “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be overshadowed soon enough,” he gestures to the performing bard.

“We both know that’s unlikely.”

“Forgive me, Dawid. You’ve seen me around but I don’t recall seeing you, I’m terrible at remembering faces.”

Dawid pouts dramatically causing Jaskier to laugh. “Isn’t my face memorable?” he teases.

Jaskier looks at him again and can’t deny that he’s very attractive. His eyes are a deep brown and for a moment he’s disappointed they aren’t yellow – then he decides he needs to let go of that. He’d been reluctant to take lovers after he realised he was in love with Geralt, it had felt wrong, well, he’s no longer tied to that. His heart is almost fixed and ready to give away again.

“Very memorable,” he turns to face him better with a flirty grin resting easily on his face, “Now that I think about it.”

Dawid looks pleased, “Good. When will I get to hear you sing again?”

“The next banquet. Although I’m always available for a more private performance,” he lowers his voice to sound suggestive, “I hope you don’t want just my singing.”

Dawid shakes his head, he’s gotten closer. Only inches away from him. Jaskier’s glad he tucked himself away in the side of the hall because he can’t focus on anything else right now. Dawid ducks his head so his lips are practically brushing against Jaskier’s ear, “Much more than that.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches and Dawid pulls away, eyes lit up. He grins, looks Jaskier up and down, and then walks away. Jaskier takes a shuddering breath as he watches him go, his heart beating overtime in his chest.

He runs his hand through his hair and tries to ground himself. It’d be too easy to let his feelings run away from themselves, always ready to give his heart to the first person to show him a bit of interest. He won’t be so foolish this time. He’ll build walls around his heart until he knows it’s safe to let them down.

* * *

“Jas, save me,” Ciri grabs his arm and starts dragging him back in the direction he was just coming from.

“What’s wrong?”

Ciri glances over her shoulder and doubles her pace as they skirt around the castle hallways. “Martin is my problem.”

“Right, yeah,” Jaskier nods, looking behind them but seeing nothing beyond the servants and usual nobles going about their day. “Sorry, who’s Martin?”

“A boy,” she grumbles, not breaking in her pace.

Jaskier barely resists a laugh and keeps his face serious, “Is he bothering you?”

“Yes,” she abruptly stops when they reach a stairwell, letting go of him and peering around the last corner. She seems satisfied that they’ve escaped. “He likes me.”

“Oh? That’s wonderful.”

Ciri glares so fiercely there’s no doubt that she was raised by Calanthe. “It’s not wonderful. He always wants to speak to me. And asks me to dance at banquets.”

“What did he do this time?”

Ciri huffs and paces angrily, “I was going to see Ela when he stopped me and asked to escort me to the gardens. The gardens,” she looks thoroughly disgusted, “Ela’s cat gave birth to kittens, I want to see them, not some stupid flowers with stupid Martin.” She kicks the floor in frustration for good measure.

Jaskier sighs and sits on the steps opposite her, “I know unwanted attention is particularly frustrating,” he says carefully. He’s been on both sides o this scenario. “I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with it a lot as a princess.”

Ciri sits next to him and crosses her arms, “It’s not fair.”

“I know, cub,” he wraps his arm around her and pulls her to his side. “If you were a commoner, I’d tell you to slap him so he gets the message,” he smirks and she giggles and nods eagerly. “Unfortunately, you need to be diplomatic. To an extent,” he thinks about Pavetta’s betrothal and all the pomp and diplomacy until the Emperor of Nilfgaard said something about potent seed.

“I’m a princess, I can slap whoever I want.”

Jaskier laughs, “You can but you need to be careful. It’s better to have friends than enemies.”

“I don’t want Martin to be my friend.”

“No, but his family is loyal to the Cintran crown and he’ll be the head of the family one day. You don’t want to make him not like you and conspire to overthrow you. Your mother received a lot of that sort of stuff until she married your father.”

Ciri grumbles unhappily and then goes quiet, “Will you tell me about her? My mother? I don’t remember her.”

Jaskier mourns for the loss of her memory, it feels like only yesterday he was laughing with Pavetta and Duny while Ciri made a mess. She should have those memories too.

“She was lovely, incredibly kind and she loved you more than anything,” he starts slowly, Pavetta had been his best friend and he still can’t stand that she’s not here. “She wasn’t much like your grandmother, she was fierce but not as loud about it. She was gentle and kind-hearted.”

Ciri hums and fiddles with the emerald ring on her finger, the one that was Pavetta’s that he had given to her all those years ago. “I miss her. Is it silly to miss someone you don’t remember?”

“Not at all, dear heart,” Jaskier assures her, holding her tighter, “I miss her, too.”

They sit together for a while, the noise of the castle working around them filling the silence. Jaskier makes a promise to himself to tell Ciri everything he can about Pavetta.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to see Ela’s kittens?” he asks quietly after a while.

Ciri nods, beginning to perk up again.

“Come on, I know the servant’s entrance. I’m sure we won’t run into any boys on the way.”

* * *

_His throat is aching. A searing pain. His hands fly to his throat expecting the swell of the djinn attack. There’s nothing there._

_The pain spreads into his lungs and his back and his body. He coughs until he cries and chokes on his own blood._

_He opens his eyes and the pain is gone but there’s a knife to his throat. Geralt is holding it there, pressing the blade against his skin until it draws blood. “What are you?” he snarls._

Jaskier wakes with a gasp. He touches his throat but there’s no pain. He has a new journal and quickly writes down what he saw. Mousesack’s draught was usually enough but sometimes the occasional nightmare managed to seep through. The ones that do are always worse.

* * *

Jaskier walks side by side with Dawid along the paths of the garden. The snow has settled and his breath fogs in front of him. Their hands brush as they walk but nothing more.

Dawid has been seeking out his company ever since the end of autumn. He’s interested and has made it clear, although he always keeps his touches restrained. He won't take Jaskier’s hand but he’ll brush their fingers together. He won’t kiss him but he’ll lean in close enough that Jaskier can see every detail in his eyes when he says a joke.

It’s maddening and Jaskier wishes he’d just do something. He can’t make the first move. Can’t let himself get hurt again.

He also isn’t sure if he can love Dawid.

Jaskier has a crush, for sure. Dawid has him blushing like a schoolboy, his heart fluttering and grinning uncontrollably. That’s all it is, a crush, an attraction.

He doesn’t love Geralt anymore. He came to that startling realisation when Dawid asked about his travels with the Witcher, and instead of being filled with sadness or anger or want or embarrassment, he felt nothing. Nothing at all. He isn’t in love with him. Geralt may always hold a part of him but that part doesn’t define who he is.

Reasonably, he can fall for Dawid. The man is handsome, charming and affectionate. He’s damn near perfect. And yet, Jaskier knows what it’s like to be in love and it never felt like this.

Dawid may be his perfect match but he doesn’t _know_ him. He knows the persona Jaskier has at court. He doesn’t know the real him that plays in dingy taverns. The real him who walks for hours on a dusty road singing song after song. Maybe that’s not the real him anymore but whatever he has with Dawid it feels artificial. Surface level.

He holds onto the hope that perhaps in time he can give him the love he deserves.

* * *

“What shall we toast to?” Mousesack asks, handing Jaskier a glass of liquor.

“Getting blackout drunk?”

The door kicks opens and Eist walks in, “Drinking without me?”

“It’s more refined without you,” Mousesack shrugs, pouring another glass to pass to the king.

“Watch it,” Eist glares but smiles. “To Cintra!”

Jaskier takes a sip and grimaces at the bitter taste, “This is awful.”

Eist takes a seat next to him, propping his feet up on Mousesack’s table. “It really is. Mousesack, I thought better of your alcohol stash.”

“You two have drunk all my good alcohol.”

Jaskier and Eist look at each other and shake their heads. “Never,” Eist denies.

“Couldn’t be us,” Jaskier says as innocently as possible.

Mousesack laughs and tops up their drinks, Jaskier knows he won’t be needing the sleeping draught tonight because he’ll undoubtedly end up passed out on the floor again. “And where is all the King’s good alcohol?”

“That’s been drunk by the Queen,” Eist shrugs, taking another drink. “I didn’t come here to drink, you know.”

“I can leave if you want to talk in private,” Jaskier offers.

Eist waves him off, “Don’t bother, but if you repeat anything you hear I’ll have to kill you,” he jokes, then sobers. “Nilfgaard is getting closer. They’re conquering more and more land. It’s only a matter of time before they attack Cintra.”

Jaskier frowns as anxiety settles in his gut. Cintra is the only place on the Continent left for him, and everyone he loves lives here. He thinks of Ciri and already feels panic at the thought of her being killed. “They won’t win, will they?”

“No,” Eist sets his jaw, “We won’t let them. We have time to prepare for an attack.”

“What of Cirilla?” Mousesack asks and they both turn to look at him. “She’s Geralt’s Surprise, will he come for her?”

For the past decade, Geralt has steadily shut down any mention of Ciri. He’s stated he would rather use his Child for bait than subject them to his life. Jaskier knows he would never hurt a child but he doubts Geralt would ever come to claim them. “It wasn’t part of any of his plans when I last saw him.”

“Calanthe won’t let him take her. She’s all she has of Pavetta,” Eist tells them.

Mousesack sighs, “And if the city falls?”

“She’ll keep Ciri safe at all costs. No matter what,” Eist turns to him, “The Witcher would protect her, if he had her, wouldn’t he?”

Jaskier nods, “With his life.” That was true no matter how Geralt felt about destiny.

“If it comes to it, I entrust the both of you to deliver Cirilla to him.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. He never expects to see Geralt again, much less to hand over the only good thing in his life. Still, he can’t come between destiny and if he must give Ciri away and never see her again he will to make sure she survives.

“Okay,” he whispers. Mousesack also agrees and Eist nods satisfied and drains the rest of his drink.

* * *

A hand grabs hold of him and pulls him into an alcove by the side of the hallway. Jaskier yelps in surprise then calms when he sees Dawid is the culprit. “Oh, hello?”

Dawid is close enough that their bodies are nearly all pressed together in the tight space. “Hi.”

“What’s this about?” Jaskier whispers. Dawid tucks a strand of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear and cups his jaw.

“This,” Dawid crashes his lips into his. Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise then his brain catches up and he reciprocates gently. He places his hands on Dawid’s hips lightly and the hand on his jaw moves up to card through his hair and tug on it.

Jaskier pulls away to catch his breath, “That was nice.”

Dawid’s laugh is light and breathless and Jaskier wants to be able to love it. “I have to go,” he says with regret, pressing another quick kiss to his lips, “I couldn’t resist anymore.”

“Fine by me.” Dawis leaves and Jaskier is left in the alcove. He wishes he could feel more; he can see the adoration in Dawid’s eyes, he doesn’t want just a fling that’s why they’ve spent months dancing around each other. Jaskier feels like he’s using him, leading him on.

He likes him, he really does, but it’s not love.

* * *

“Your hair’s gotten so long,” Ciri tugs at his hair as she attempts to pull it into a braid. He’d already sorted her hair and she had demanded she do his. Her fingers aren’t as deft and several tufts of hair have already fallen out of the start of the braid.

She continues with determination. There are more tangles than braids but it’s funny to watch her face behind him in the mirror. His hair has gotten long, the longest he’s ever worn it – it’s falling in line with his chin. He looks a lot different, older, he’s not sure he likes it but he’s a new person now.

“Thank you, I grew it myself.”

Ciri gives him an unimpressed look and he grins. She rolls her eyes and pulls his hair harder than necessary. She’s starting to look so much like Pavetta these days it’s like seeing a ghost. And the irony is not lost on him that her hair matches Geralt’s.

“I’m no good at this,” she huffs, wrapping a hair tie at the base of his neck.

“It’s not bad, you just need practice.” His hair looks abysmal. A very loose braid trails along the top of his head with the sides not folding in properly and random pieces sticking upwards. “By the time you’re grown up, you’ll be a natural.”

Ciri sits on the bench next to him, “I don’t want to learn to braid. I want to learn to fight, like my grandmother. She went to battle at my age and she won’t even let me hold a sword.”

“Swords are-”

“Dangerous and not for little girls,” she cuts him off with a voice that says she’s heard it all before.

“Swords are overrated,” he corrects.

Ciri looks very disbelieving, “My grandmother has a sword. She’s the best at sword fighting.”

Jaskier nods in agreement, “She is, but she only uses it when she has to. It’s always better to deal with your problems without them.”

“What else would I use?”

“Words are just as important, believe me.” Geralt had spent their time together avoiding words and look where that landed them. “More so. Your mother didn’t use swords and she still married your father when everyone was trying to kill him.”

“How?”

“Words, magic.” Jaskier isn’t sure exactly how much Ciri knows about Pavetta’s magic beyond the fact that she had it. That wasn’t a secret that could be kept when it nearly destroyed the court.

Ciri looks up at him, “Could I have magic too?”

Jaskier remembers the sheer power Ciri had when she was just a baby and how Pavetta had begged him not to tell anyone. With Nilfgaard on the rise, he knows that’s for the best, lest they target Ciri for her power.

“Probably not,” he lies, and it feels bitter on his tongue, “It skipped your grandmother.”

Ciri slumps but thankfully doesn’t seem too bothered. Jaskier sighs and distracts them both by getting his lute. He hopes he’s making the right decision by not telling her. It’s what Pavetta had wanted.

* * *

_“Choose something now. What do you want so that I may choose.”_

_The woman smiles, she looks like no ordinary woman. A fae, his mind supplies. “A memory.”_

_He blinks and she’s gone. He’s lying in bed with Geralt. “Have you ever been in love?” he asks and is startled by his own boldness. Wonders where the words came from._

_“Yes. Have you?” Geralt asks, eyes boring into his soul_

* * *

“It’s just a bardic competition, I’ll be a month.”

Ciri crosses her arms stubbornly, “Take me with you.”

“Wish I could, maybe when you’re older.”

“Promise you’ll come back?”

“I’ll always come back,” he promises, pulling her in for a hug. Ciri waits on the steps of the palace as he gets into the carriage waiting for him – the perks of a steady royal income. He waves as the carriage pulls away and she waves back.

She disappears out of sight and Jaskier plucks absently at his lute. This is the first time he’s left Cintra since he arrived and the further he gets from the city the worse he feels.

It’s fine, he can channel it into the competition.

* * *

The sight of Valdo Marx instantly makes Jaskier seethe. He’s not aged well the past few years which is delightful and he’s already spinning several degrading retorts in preparation.

“Look what the cat dragged it, Jaskier, I didn’t expect to see you this year.”

Jaskier smiles politely, “It was a Cintran royal carriage that dragged me, you see I’m Queen Calanthe’s personal bard. Anyway, why wouldn’t you see me? I’m the reigning champion.”

Valdo looks at him with disgust, “Only because you slept with the judges, not for any talent of your own.”

Jaskier laughs loudly and falsely, “Oh, Valdo. I can assure you I haven’t slept with them. They look a bit old for my taste. Maybe you’d be better suited to them?”

* * *

He wins. Valdo comes in third.

Jaskier spends a week celebrating in Cidaris doing a few celebratory performances in the local taverns. He misses Cintra. He misses Ciri and even Dawid. When he begins to travel South again he’s thankful to be headed back to familiarity.

Except the borders to Kerack are closed. The driver of the carriage explains they’ll have to go back up North and through Temeria so it should take another day. A mild annoyance but he’s well used to long journeys.

They make it over the borders into Temeria, except every major city they need to pass through refuses them entry. Jaskier didn’t come with any permission papers. He didn’t think he needed any and no one believes him when he says who he is. So they go further north again looking for a route to bypass Temeria and make it back down to Cintra.

After four days they end up crossing the Pontar into Redania and Jaskier thinks he’ll never make it back to Cintra at this rate. He pays for his driver’s room at an inn, the poor man having gotten little rest on their journey.

When Jaskier wakes up he finds the man and the carriage gone. He asks around and finds out that his driver was free to travel between borders as a worker. It was him that was the problem. So, he’s been abandoned.

He still has his lute and some coin. He steels himself to make a long trek back home. Except when he tries to leave the city he’s stopped by roadblocks.

“Papers?”

“Oh, I uh, don’t have any?”

The guard rolls his eyes, “Can’t let you pass.”

“Please, I’m Jaskier, perhaps you’ve heard of me. Master bard?”

“Unless you’ve got the papers I can’t let you through.”

“Right,” Jaskier blinks owlishly and walks away. All the main roads out of town have guards on them and there are even patrols circling the outskirts. He bides his time and manages to slip away from the town and into the surrounding forest.

He really isn’t wearing the right shoes to go trekking through the underbrush. He doesn’t know what direction he’s going in. Every time he gets close to civilisation there’s guards blocking the roads, so on he goes.

Two days later he reaches a larger city. Oxenfurt.

“Papers?” the guard asks in a bored tone.

Jaskier makes a show of rooting through his pockets, “Ah shit, I must have misplaced them. Let me introduce myself, I’m Jaskier Pankratz, the bard of Queen Calanthe and Oxenfurt graduate.” Only one of those statements is a lie.

“And I’m the King of Redania. Piss off.”

The other guard on duty nudges the first and nods at Jaskier, “He does look like him.”

The first guard doesn’t look convinced, “No papers, no entry.”

“Please.”

“Sorry, mate.”

Another man joins them, “Is there a problem, lads?” Jaskier recognises him, it takes him a minute to realise that it’s Sigismund.

Sigismund seems to recognise him, too. He smiles broadly when he sees him and apparently has the power to let him into the city. Jaskier is just relieved at the thought of a bed that he doesn’t question when Sigismund leads him back to the university.

The room he takes him to is the same as last time. Except for this time the boards are full of writing and paperwork and a team of men bustling around the room. “Uh, aren’t you a lecturer?” Jaskier asks, noticing the vast array of royal and noble names written on the board next to what he assumes is private information.

“You could say that,” Sigismund nods, “This is the Redanian Secret Service. Tell anyone what you’ve seen here and you’re dead.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and he back away, “What? Uh. Um. I didn’t even want to see this?”

Sigismund shrugs, “Well you have now. And you don’t have the papers to leave the city, and we want your skills. So you work for me now.”

He can’t breathe, his eyes fly around the room. This is not what he had planned at all. He wants to go home not do whatever this is. Sigismund watches him with a glint in his eyes and Jaskier sees that this was his plan all along. Last year he had been asking about court; this was why.

“I don’t want to work for you.”

“That’s fine,” Sigismund nods easily, “But you know too much now, so we’ll have to kill you. Or you can tell us what you know and live.”

* * *

Thankfully, all Sigismund asks about at first is the smaller courts Jaskier has attended. Mostly those in Redania, what do the nobles get up to, what do they want to hide. Suspiciously, he doesn’t ask about Cintra and Jaskier won’t tell him a thing if he does.

He gets a bed in the room with the rest. The other spies come and go but he never gets the room to himself. He had brought some of Mousesack’s sleeping draught with him but not nearly enough. This isn’t a place he wants to wake from a nightmare in, it’s already one. He rations the draught only taking a sip each night. It’s enough to let him sleep peacefully but not dreamlessly.

After a month, Sigismund gives him his first proper assignment. He hands him some travel papers and an invitation to a lord’s court in the north of the kingdom. Jaskier is to go, perform, find out everything he can, and return.

Jaskier wants to take the travel papers and run all the way home, but they only permit travel within Redania. And he suspects were he to try, Sigismund would have no problem tracking him down and killing him.

So he goes, and after his performance is over and everyone is drunk he finds the offices. He gets ahold of some scandalous personal letters between the lord and a lady who is not his wife. A few drafts of laws that won’t be popular and a bit of stealing taxpayer money.

He arrives back in Oxenfurt with the information and Sigismund gives him approval, “Well done, it’s everything I wanted you to find.”

“Wait, you knew what would be there?” Jaskier had never been so stressed sneaking around that manor. He risked his life and reputation.

Sigismund grins wolfishly, “It was a test to see how good you are. Sent someone ahead of you to check what there was to find.”

After that, Jaskier gets sent away every few weeks. While he’s in Oxenfurt, he gets given a job as a music lecturer to keep up appearances for his sudden presence in the city. He has a handful of students and it’s ironic that he’s spent twenty years lying to Geralt that this is what he did every winter, and now Geralt is no longer a part of his life it’s the truth.

When he teaches, he can pretend that his life doesn’t hang in the balance.

Jaskier doesn’t think his spying brings much to the table beyond keeping Sigismund in power of Redania. The more experienced spies bring information about Nilfgaard’s movements that help the war effort.

At least they’re allied with the northern kingdoms. Jaskier would hate himself if he was forced to work to help Nilfgaard in mounting an attack against Cintra.

His summer drags on forever. He misses Ciri’s birthday and wonders if anyone even notices that he’s missing. They probably thought he left to travel with Geralt again. He’d take that over this.

Then winter comes and Nilfgaard is pushing forward harder than ever. He stops being given assignments and Sigismund still won’t let him go. Jaskier knows that Cintra is their target and he can’t do anything to help the ones he loves.

He needs to have faith that they’ll easily defeat Nilfgaard’s army but the more information he hears about their attacks the less he believes it. He had promised Eist he’d protect Ciri, how can he do that from here?

* * *

“Cintra’s been attacked,” one of the spies announces to the room.

Jaskier sits up instantly as everyone starts asking questions. No, it couldn’t be happening. Cintra was still woefully unprepared.

“Battle started yesterday. I rode through the night.”

“Is everyone alright?” Jaskier asks before he can stop himself.

“The King and Queen rode to battle, the city hasn’t been breached. Yet.”

Sigismund instantly starts ordering people around sending them all over the Continent to where he wants them. The room is full of shouts as they argue over where to go and what to do.

No one notices him.

Jaskier takes travel papers off the table while no one is watching and tucks it deep into his pocket. He slips out of the room. He jogs silently down the hallway until he can’t hear the clamour of the room.

He steps out of the university and runs as fast as he can away from it. It’s already going dark but he doesn’t care. He presents his papers and the guard lets him by without a word.

He needs to get to Cintra as fast as possible.

* * *

Jaskier makes it to Brugge when he sees the first refugees. It’s been three days since he escaped Redania and all he has heard about it the war. He sees the Cintran flag at a small camp of people and races towards it.

They look worse than him. Dirty and traumatised. Lots of them are wounded and only a handful have bandages for them. “What happened?” he asks the first person he sees who looks of sound mind.

The woman looks at him as if he’s grown two heads, “What’s it look like? Nilfgaard sacked the city.”

“What happened to Calanthe? The Queen. And the princess?”

The woman shrugs, “Dead most likely. Makes no difference to me.”

Jaskier nods absently and walks away from her. He leans his hand against a tree and throws up. His stomach is empty but he gags and spews bile until he’s choking on the air and his tears.

His home. Ciri. His family. It’s all lost.

Someone tries to coax him to sit down but he pushes through the camp and further south. Ciri can’t be dead. She can’t be.

A voice calls out that he’s going the wrong way as he makes for Cintra. He refuses to believe it.

The next day he’s ready to collapse from exhaustion but he makes it to Cintra. He’s not even near the capital city but Nilfgaard is swarming the area and everything is up in smoke.

It’s true.

Jaskier sinks to his knees and sobs for everyone he left behind.

It’s not safe to stay there. He heads north again. Nilfgaard are moving towards Sodden so he avoids it as best he can, but now they’ve taken Cintra they’re quickly taking more ground.

For the next three weeks, he gets pushed further north. He can’t go back through Redania so travels through Lyria and Aedirn. He’s ahead of Nilfgaard’s advance but not by much. Some of the towns he passes already have scouts.

He keeps an ear out for any word that someone he knows is alive. That Ciri is alive. Nilfgaard is searching for something, that’s all he knows. He prays to all the gods that means Ciri is out there someone.

It had only taken a week for him to learn that Calanthe and Eist were dead. He had been devasted by the news. All of his worst fears confirmed. Now he feels numb as he goes further and further.

He’s in Kaedwen at some market trying to make the best of his meagre coins to buy supplies when he hears, “Jas!” and someone collides into him.

It’s Ciri.

Jaskier wraps his arms around her and lifts her up holding onto her as tight as possible. His eyes fill with tears. She’s alive. She’s safe. “Oh, thank god,” he whispers, reluctantly putting her dead. He looks her over and she’s not injured apart from a truly tragic haircut. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“You didn’t come back,” she looks desperate, “Everyone’s gone. I thought I lost you, too.”

“Never, dear heart. Never,” he promises, he’ll never leave her again. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Except, she turns as calls out, “Geralt! I found him! I found my friend.”

Yellow eyes meet his own and he’s frozen in place. He cycles through a whirlwind of emotions and settles somewhere between anger and resignation. Ciri had found her destiny, which meant he wouldn’t see her again. Geralt wouldn’t let him stay around anymore.

“Me too.”

Jaskier’s confusion matches Ciri’s as she asks if they’re friends, too. He had thought they were but after the mountain, it was clear they never had been. So why had Geralt said that?

“I see you’ve both found your destiny,” he chokes out.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks and Jaskier straightens his shoulders. He expected nothing less. Already Geralt wants rid of him.

“Trying to find a nice place for winter.”

Then it comes out that he’s never spent a winter in Oxenfurt. And then Geralt throws even more accusatory looks his way. That one is Jaskier’s fault for lying so he avoids eye contact. In comparison to the hurt Geralt has caused him it’s minor, so he doesn't feel too guilty.

“Will you be coming with us?” Ciri looks up at him with such hope and desperation that Jaskier wants to say yes. He wants to come with her or take her with him. She’s all he has left.

He looks at Geralt, his face is unreadable. “I don’t think-” he begins but Geralt cuts him off.

“Of course, he is.” Geralt’s tone leaves no room for argument and Jaskier is stunned. “If you want,” he adds on softer. Maybe Ciri is already having some influence.

Ciri looks so hopeful. And even if he doesn’t want to see Geralt again he’d do anything for her. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll come too.”

Jaskier follows them silently to the inn. He feels divided, half of him over the moon that Ciri is safe and the other half knowing he’ll have to travel with Geralt again knowing full well how much he is unwanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that's what jaskiers been up to! hope you liked it! let me know <3


	19. hopeless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man this is the shortest chapter I've written in a while, but we're no longer covering several years at a time so the rest of the chapters might clock in around 5-6k. Maybe. They might still be longer. 
> 
> oh and btw for Jaskier's hair length he's kinda looking like Joey in the background of the Robert Hallow and the Holy Men live 'grey leaves' video on youtube!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

Geralt stays behind Ciri and Jaskier when they get to the inn, the two of them clinging to each other and speaking in low tones. Jaskier hasn’t looked at him again. Seeing the way the two interact assuages any anger at Jaskier for lying about Oxenfurt if it means that Ciri has someone now.

Jaskier’s hair has grown out. Not quite as long as he’d worn it in his past lives but it still feels like looking at a ghost, more than usual. In all the twenty years of knowing him, the bard always cut his hair before it got long. Geralt thinks of the journal full of half-remembered lives and wonders if Jaskier remembers how he used to like wearing it.

There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue; not nearly the right words but he knows he needs to make it up. He doesn’t know how to bring it up. Especially not with Ciri around.

“How many rooms?” the innkeeper asks.

Before either of them can even have that awkward conversation of figuring out how they fit into each other’s lives now, Ciri says one room. The room is fairly big for the price, with a double and single bed fitting into the space. Jaskier sets down a bag, smaller than the one he used to own and lighter too by the sound of it hitting the floor. It reminds Geralt that he still has Jaskier’s bag of clothes and his journal; he should give it back but selfishly he wants to keep it.

Finally, Jaskier looks at him. “There’s a contract in town. You should take it. I imagine you’re low on coin.” His voice and face are blank, cordial, not even his scent gives away what he’s feeling.

“I can’t leave Ciri alone.”

“I’ll watch her.”

Geralt hesitates, glancing at Ciri who is happily sat on the mattress. He doesn’t want to risk leaving her alone. Not until they reach Kaer Morhen. But Jaskier is right, he barely has enough coin to buy supplies for him and Ciri and Jaskier doesn’t look like he has any either.

“Okay,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to Ciri’s head. She looks worried at him leaving but doesn’t protest. Jaskier will keep her safe. He grabs his sword and heads back out into the cold to find the alderman.

* * *

He gets back when it’s already gone dark. The inn is practically silent and Ciri and Jaskier are both asleep. There’s a bowl of stew and a bit of bread waiting on the dresser for him. It’s cold and weak but he appreciates it.

Thankfully, he’s not covered in too much blood and his pocket is heavy with coin. He slips off his armour and slides into the double bed behind Ciri.

Jaskier is on the single, facing the wall. Geralt wants to reach out, wake him up and talk to him while Ciri is asleep. But if he’s had a few weeks similar to what he and Ciri have, then he mustn’t have slept well at all. It would be worse to wake him from the much needed rest.

Tomorrow. He’ll talk to him tomorrow.

* * *

Geralt wakes up to Ciri shaking him frantically. “Geralt, Jaskier’s gone.”

He looks to the single bed, the sheets are messed up and Jaskier isn’t there. In fact, none of his belongings are in the room. Ciri looks devastated and afraid. Geralt throws the sheets aside and gets out of bed.

It made no sense for Jaskier to leave. He had promised Ciri he would stay. He leaves the room with Ciri hot on his heels. They make it to the bar area but Jaskier isn’t there.

Jaskier’s scent is still lingering on the air, he can’t be too far away. He jogs to the stables, he'll easily be able to catch up on Roach. Ciri’s footsteps follow him but he keeps his eyes out for the bard.

“Jas!” Ciri runs past him into the stables. Jaskier is sat on a hay pile beside Roach, his bags beside him.

“Are you leaving?” Geralt demands.

“What? No,” Jaskier hugs Ciri tightly and she pulls away. “I was just getting ready to leave. Didn’t want to slow you both down.”

Ciri frowns, “Why would you slow us down? We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

Jaskier licks his lips and casts a glance at Geralt before giving her a reassuring smile, “Just wanted to make sure.”

She frowns unhappily but accepts his answer. They go back to the inn and Jaskier orders breakfast while Ciri and Geralt pack up their room. Geralt doesn’t get a chance to talk to Jaskier alone for the rest of the day as they go to the market collecting supplies. Ciri is always with them and Geralt doesn’t dare leave her unattended. There’s no Nilfgaardian soldiers around but there may be spies.

When they’re all stocked up they move on from the town and none of them spend a moment apart for the next four days of travel. It’s too cold to be camping but they have no choice. Their bedrolls are lined up next to each other with Ciri tucked into the middle – the safest and the warmest. Jaskier is within arm’s length of him but Geralt keeps his hands firmly to himself.

At the next inn they stay in, there are a few men in plain clothes with thick Nilfgaard accents. The three of them spend their time crammed into their small room praying that they’ve not been noticed. Jaskier braids Ciri’s hair close to her head and puts a hat on her, she passes for a boy and anyone who sees Geralt assumes he’s taken a boy to turn into a Witcher.

They hurry out of town before dawn the next day. Geralt sets them on a hard pace. He can hear Jaskier breathing heavier than usual in an attempt to keep up with Geralt and Ciri on Roach, but he doesn’t want to risk slowing. They don’t have time to hide their trail so all he can do is get far and fast.

It’s several hours later when they stop properly. Jaskier sighs in relief when they sit on the cold icy floor and stretches out his muscles with a grimace. They eat a bit of their food but they need to keep it for the journey up the mountain.

“You should ride Roach with Ciri,” Geralt tells him when they get back up.

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth, “Oh, it’s fine. You don’t have to.”

“You need rest,” he insists. If he can’t talk to him properly just yet, he can still start to be a good friend. An apology without words until they can get a moment alone.

Jaskier still looks hesitant but offers no further protest. He rides Roach behind Ciri and Geralt leads them at the same fast pace as before. Jaskier sings for them as they ride, quietly so as not to attract any attention, and it’s a welcome relief from the silent year Geralt has had without him.

His voice reaches out around Geralt, wraps him in a warm embrace and soothes out every worry he’s been holding close.

When they finally make camp, it’s dark already. Dinner is a short affair of rations passed around a small fire. Jaskier goes to sleep when Ciri does, or at least he lays there pretending to be.

Geralt lies next to them waiting for Ciri to fall asleep so he can whisper. Say something. Anything. Even if it’s only a promise to talk when they get to Kaer Morhen. Except when she finally does, so has Jaskier.

He lies awake, keeping watch and unable to sleep regardless. He keeps losing his words. Finding ones that sound right then thinking them over and over until they become woefully inadequate. After a few hours, Ciri starts to squirm in her sleep.

She tosses her head from side to side and whimpers. Geralt holds her tighter until she calms. Only a few minutes after, Jaskier flinches too. His face twists into something miserable and Geralt can smell the fear coming off him. A nightmare. The journal at the bottom of Roach’s bags sits only a few meters away containing the contents of said nightmares. Another thing Geralt needs to speak with him about.

He watches Jaskier’s face and wonders which memory is causing him this much pain. Then Ciri starts shifting again. She whimpers and cries out, arms thrashing against the blankets surrounding her. Geralt tries his best to soothe her but can’t. All he can do is try and wake her.

She remains firmly asleep despite his shaking her. Then she lets out an ear splitting scream.

Geralt flinches back, whole body throwing back and his hands flying to his ears to get away from the sound. The ground shakes with the power of it. “Ciri!” he yells out but her eyes are still closed.

Jaskier wakes, blinking and grimacing at the noise. Less bothered than him. He shakes Ciri gently, whispers something Geralt can’t hear and Ciri’s eyes fly open.

The screaming stops and Geralt takes his hands off his ears and sits up. Ciri eyes fly around their camp, panting. “What happened?”

“You had a nightmare,” Jaskier explains soothingly, rubbing her arm. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Ciri nods with tears in her eyes. She reaches out for him and Geralt goes to her, hugging her tight to his chest. “Are you okay?” he whispers and she nods. “You should try and go back to sleep. We have a lot of travel tomorrow.”

She settles between them, holding both him and Jaskier close. They’re both wide awake as she slips back to sleep. The silence settles over them and this is the opportunity Geralt has been waiting for.

Except the words don’t come easily. He can’t remember what he wanted to say first. Doesn’t know how to break the silence.

Jaskier beats him to it, “She has Pavetta’s power.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since she was a baby. She made the whole room start floating. Pavetta made me promise not to tell anyone, not even Calanthe. She’s not shown it since then, until now.”

Geralt pictures a baby Ciri in Jaskier’s arms and is shocked to find himself angry he didn’t get to see it himself. If only he had gone back to Cintra sooner. “It’s why Nilfgaard wants her.”

“I don’t know what they want with her,” Jaskier whispers dejectedly.

“I’ll keep her safe,” Geralt promises, “I’ll keep you both safe.”

Jaskier nods once, “I know. Eist made me promise to bring her to you if Cintra fell.” It occurs to Geralt that this must have happened after the mountain and his hope picks up that Jaskier would still agree to see him. “I failed that promise. I wasn’t even there.”

“Why weren’t you?”

A lot of emotions fly over Jaskier’s face in the span of a few seconds, none of them pleasant. “Ever heard of the Redanian Secret Service?” Geralt nods and Jaskier sighs, “I was working for them.”

Geralt can’t imagine Jaskier as a spy. He draws too much attention. He dresses brightly and captures the eyes of everyone in the room. Except he isn’t the same as he once was. He’s dressed in darker clothes, a dark blue navy outfit that’s more muted than Geralt’s ever seen. A long dark cloak and longer unkempt hair. Even his lute is tucked under his cloak, out of sight and going unused. Maybe it wasn’t so strange.

He hums and nods a little. Now is the right time. Just say it. Say anything. The words won’t come, he can’t make his mouth move to say anything. Jaskier shuffles. Geralt takes in a breath and Jaskier looks at him almost expectantly.

Whatever he had rehearsed all day flies out of his mind. He snaps his jaw shut and doesn’t look up to see Jaskier again.

Jaskier falls asleep just before dawn. Geralt should wake them so they can keep moving but he lets them dream a little longer.

* * *

Maybe he’s tempting fate. Or maybe he’s testing just how much Jaskier remembers. They travel to Kaer Morhen by the de Sade mansion.

The trees that line the road are all thick branches and no leaves. The old house is clear from the road as they pass by. It looks even worse than the last time Geralt saw it. The walls are discoloured and covered in dying ivy. It looks dead, wilted.

“Shame to see,” Jaskier comments, eyes lingering on the house. Geralt watches his face for any hint of recognition. There’s a look that he can’t place. “Wonder why it was left.”

Ciri is looking at the house as they pass by, too, but looks less interested.

“The lord died,” Geralt explains gruffly, “Few hundred years ago.”

Jaskier makes a pitying noise but looks away once they pass.

They make it to the base of the mountain by midday. They stop for a quick lunch but the temperature is already dropping. Ciri shivers and Geralt wraps his extra blanket around her. The climb isn’t too steep at first. Mostly it’s underbrush and uneven terrain that is the main problem to traverse, the incline is steady.

None of them can ride Roach lest she break a leg on the rocky ground. As they get further the snow becomes thicker and the path that is usually visible is already covered. The snow comes up to Ciri and Jaskier’s ankles as their steps sink into the snow with each step.

They reach a section of fallen boulders and Geralt stops them. It’s still late and they could make more progress before dark, but he knows this is the only place with decent cover for a camp. Ciri clears the snow as best as she can, Jaskier pins up their tent by the cover of the rocks and Geralt makes the fire using ignii every five minutes to keep it alight. They huddle around the small fire, he’s the only one not shivering.

He holds Ciri close to give her as much heat as possible. Jaskier is against his side but not as close as he could be. Geralt wants to wrap a hand around him and tug him the extra inch closer but he doesn’t. His side feels alight with him being so close and yet so far.

Jaskier wonders a little away from camp just before dark to pee and Ciri looks up at him with an unimpressed face. “You haven’t apologised yet. For being rude.”

“No,” Geralt admits.

“You need to.”

“I want to.”

Her face softens, “I know. You keep looking at him all day. It’s gross.”

Geralt blinks, “Sorry?”

“It’s like my grandparents. They’d always look at each other when they were together, even if they weren’t talking.”

Geralt stills a little, unaware his still present feelings for Jaskier were that obvious. If Ciri could figure it out then surely Jaskier knew, too. “He doesn’t look at me.”

Ciri shrugs a little, “Because you haven’t spoken to him, yet. If you did then he would.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I did.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t need to. I know him. I know you, too, I think. He’ll forgive you.”

Jaskier comes back and takes his place beside Geralt and they go back to silence. Ciri and Jaskier chatter across him and he gets roped in here and there but for the most part, he is silent. He knows he needs to talk to him. They’ll reach Kaer Morhen tomorrow. They can speak then.

* * *

Even the tips of Geralt’s fingers are going numb by the time they reach the keep, so he can only imagine how cold everyone else is. He pushes open the gates that are nearly stuck together with ice. Finally, they are safe.

Ciri and Jaskier look up at the castle with awe. Jaskier tilts his head and Geralt’s stomach drops, he must remember, he must understand now. Still, the bard is silent. The stables are warm and he quickly settles Roach in.

They cross the courtyard to the keep and once inside the warmth of fire hits their faces. The drafts that still permeate the keep are nothing in comparison to the bitter cold outside.

Geralt can hear voices coming from the small hall and he leads Ciri and Jaskier. He holds his breath as they get closer. His brothers know who Jaskier is, or rather who he was, and they might uncover that instantly.

Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir are all sat around the table with a game of gwent between them. Eskel is the first to notice him and stands up, the other two follow suit. They stop short of reaching him when Ciri and Jaskier follow him into the room.

The other Witcher’s are quieter than they’ve ever been in their lives as they stare at them. Or more accurately, Jaskier.

Geralt should have known it was a mistake bringing Jaskier here. Jaskier who doesn’t know about the curse, not properly, and his brothers who had no clue either. His brothers who had seen Julian grow old and heard of his death.

He clears his throat, “This is Cirilla, my child surprise. And Jaskier. My,” he doesn’t know how to describe Jaskier. Not after everything. “Friend.” He settles on, because it’s the truth, even if he never said it to him. He wants to make amends – he should start by being a worthy friend to the bard.

He hears the sharp exhale of breath from Jaskier.

The other Witchers look from Jaskier to Geralt and he knows he’ll have a lot of explaining to do. “Pleased to meet you,” Jaskier smiles awkwardly.

Ciri parrots his introduction, both of them hiding behind Geralt.

Vesemir is the first to break from his trance, “Welcome to Kaer Morhen. Geralt why don’t you show them to some rooms?”

Geralt nods and quickly ushers them back out. He catches the confused and almost horrified looks of Lambert and Eskel and knows he needs to do a lot of explaining. He shows Ciri to a room next to his and Jaskier to a room on the other side of hers.

Neither of the rooms have been used in decades and look worn down in comparison to his own. There’s still sheets and furs on the bed; it’ll be acceptable until they can dedicate some time to fixing them up.

He watches as Jaskier peruses his new room, eyes lingering on the old armchair and bathtub. “Is it suitable?” he asks, hoping Jaskier approves of his home.

“Yes, thank you," Jaskier gives him a tentative smile, "You didn’t have to bring me here you know?”

“I know,” Geralt meets his eyes. He prays to every god that Jaskier knows he didn’t have to, he did this because he wanted to.

“Right. Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome,” the words feel wrong on his tongue. Jaskier shouldn’t be thanking him for anything. He looks exhausted and cold and Geralt should let him rest. He excuses himself and makes his way back to the small hall.

Whatever jovial attitude they had before he arrived is lost. They all stand, tense and waiting.

“What the hell?” Lambert is the first one to snap. “That’s Julian.”

“No, it’s not.”

Eskel scoffs, “Really? We all know him. It’s Julian. What did you do? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Vesemir is silent, watching, nothing is betrayed on his face and that makes Geralt more anxious than if he said what he thought.

“It’s not Julian, it’s Jaskier. He keeps coming back, reincarnation,” he explains. “He doesn’t remember his past. He doesn’t remember you.”

A flash of hurt crosses Lambert and Eskel’s faces. “How many times has he come back?” Vesemir asks, more curious than angry.

“This is the fourth time. Julian was third.”

Eskel’s eyes dart back and forth as he adds something up, “Wait, wait, wait. You always had a thing for bards. Dandelion? Buttercup? They were him too, weren’t they?”

Geralt winces, “Yes.”

Lambert makes a strangled noise, “You didn’t think to fucking tell us. At any point?”

“I didn’t understand until Julian. I didn’t want to look into it in case he died or it stopped it.” In hindsight, he should have told them sooner. Asked for help, guidance, anything. He hadn’t thought it was a problem that needed solving, though.

Vesemir holds out a hand to stop Lambert further yelling, “Do you know what’s causing it?”

Geralt shakes his head helplessly, “No. I don’t know if he lived before Dandelion. I don’t know if he’ll have another life after this.”

Eskel frowns, “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I made a djinn wish, badly worded.”

“Melitele’s tits,” Lambert grinds out, pacing in the small room. “I’m guessing you haven’t ever told him either. You didn’t tell Julian.”

“No.”

Lambert laughs sardonically, “Well at least only one person’s been lying to me.”

Geralt clenches his teeth to keep from reacting. Throughout it all, Lambert has always had his back but this might just be the breaking point. He really can’t keep the people in his life happy. “I wasn’t lying. Just not telling.”

“Same difference.”

“So, he doesn’t remember us? At all?” Eskel pipes up again, sounding more sad than angry now.

“Maybe, but he doesn’t realise. He’s always had muscle memory, actions from a past life he shouldn’t know in this one. This time he’s been having dreams of the past,” Geralt wonders if he should show them the journal, but he wants to keep it to himself. “I don’t know if he realises what they are.”

Lambert shakes his head, “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Just don’t tell him, please,” he sounds desperate and he knows it.

Lambert looks like he wants to protest but Vesemir cuts in, “We won’t. We don’t know how it would affect him if he knew. It’s safest to leave it be.”

Geralt breathes a sigh of relief knowing that Vesemir agrees with him on that. It’s a justification for not telling Jaskier in the first place.

“Let’s all go to bed,” Vesemir tells them with no room for argument, “We can talk about this with level heads tomorrow.”

* * *

The next morning is awkward at breakfast.

They all sit around the table and none of his brothers will look at Jaskier, or look at him for such an amount of time that even Geralt knows is uncomfortable. He has to kick Lambert under the table for it.

Ciri is sweet and tries to make conversation with them. Thankfully, they indulge her and the last half of the meal is slightly less awkward, even if their conversation is a little stilted.

Jaskier won’t look at him. Geralt tries to figure out what that means.

His plan for an apology after breakfast is blindsided by Ciri asking for a tour of the castle, then after he needs to tend to Roach properly. Then after that Vesemir speaks to him and his brothers again. Calmer this time and they agree not to mention anything and treat Jaskier as though they are meeting him for the first time.

Then it’s dinnertime and Jaskier is the first to leave the table.

After a week Geralt doesn’t know how to bring it up. The more time stretches on the more difficult it becomes. He tries to treat him better, serving him first at mealtimes, showing him the limited section on music and arts in the library. He hopes it’s enough.

* * *

Screams wake the castle and shake the walls.

Geralt jumps up in a panic, grabbing his swords and running to the screams. It's like the sacking again. When he gets closer he realises it’s Ciri.

He drops his sword and opens her door but the force of the magic is pushing against him. Down the hallway, Eskel and Lambert are coming too. All the furniture is hovering in the air in Ciri’s room.

“Ciri!” he yells out, trying to move inside against the force of it. “Cirilla!”

Eskel reaches him first, wild eyed, “What’s happening?” he yells over the sound of wind whipping through the keep.

“Magic,” he growls, throwing axii at the girl but it rebuffs against her magic.

The sound stops but her mouth is still open in a silent scream and the magic pulses with force. Geralt and Eskel are thrown backwards across the hallway, force pushing them into the walls. What little progress Lambert made is erased. Next to them, Jaskier’s door opens and he staggers out.

“Ciri?” he squints in confusion.

Geralt manages to raise an arm and casts aard, anything, to stop the overwhelming magic. He can see Ciri mouthing words now that he can’t hear. Jaskier is still on his feet, struggling against the magic but not pinned in place like they are.

He makes it into her room, a few feet from the bed. Geralt can’t hear him but Ciri stops speaking. She thrashes in the bed and the floating furniture shakes and crashes down.

The magic stops and he and Eskel are dropped to the floor, gasping for breath. Jaskier is at Ciri’s side when Geralt manages to stand up and rush in. He goes to her side, she shakes while holding Jaskier’s hand and he holds her other.

When she calms down she manages a wrecked, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her head. “It’s okay.”

Geralt takes her to get a warm drink and she sits on the kitchen counter looking distraught. “Did I hurt you?” she whimpers.

“No,” he hands her a mug of warm milk.

She sips it gingerly, “I’ve killed people with that before. Where Zola found me. I killed them.”

“You need to learn to control it, it’s just chaos,” he strokes over her head.

“How would I learn?”

Geralt realises that only one person would be able to teach her.

* * *

Yennefer glances around the dusty room and grimaces. “You have two minutes before I realise I’ve wasted my time.”

“I need your help.”

She rolls her eyes, “When don’t you?”

“Yen.” She glares and motions for him to keep going. “Ciri, my child surprise, she has magic. I need you to teach her to control it.”

Yennefer narrows her eyes, “I’m well aware of it. Every mage worth their salt has sensed the shift in chaos. Why should I? What do I get out of it?”

Geralt struggles, he can’t offer her much beyond room and board. “My indentured servitude?”

She quirks a small smile, “I want to meet her. Alone. And then I’ll decide.”

Geralt hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Yennefer but he doesn’t trust anyone with Ciri who can take her away in a second. Ciri had asked him who Yennefer was; Ciri was bound to him by destiny and he had bound Yennefer, they were going to meet eventually. Ciri needed her.

“Fine.”

* * *

“I’ll do it,” Yennefer tells him after meeting Ciri. Her voice is softer than before.

“Thank you. I’m sorry, for the djinn.”

Yennefer nods, “You should be. I’m not angry anymore. It’s been the least of my worries,” her eyes darken. “You were right. The djinn didn’t make me feel anything.”

Geralt’s eyebrows raise at her admission that he was right.

“Whatever I felt for you wasn’t love,” Yennefer continues, resignation and admittance in her voice, “I wanted it to be. I won’t do it again.”

“I understand,” Geralt mutters. He doesn’t want Yennefer back, but her closing that door forever feels like the last bit of hope that someone might love him back being shut in his face.

“Good.” Yennefer walks slowly around the room, catching dust off the shelf on her finger and frowning, “What about the bard? Told him yet?”

“No, he and Ciri don’t know. The others do. Don’t tell him.”

She hums, “It’s not my job to tell him.”

* * *

Lambert closes the door behind him and hovers. He doesn’t make himself comfortable in his room like he usually does. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Geralt sighs, “I knew you’d call me an idiot.”

“You are an idiot,” Lambert agrees. “I would have helped.”

“I know, that’s not why I didn’t tell you.”

“Then why?”

Geralt shrugs, he doesn’t really have a good reason beyond fear and stubbornness. “I wasn’t ready to tell anyone, didn’t know how.”

Lambert nods a little and accepts the answer, “Any other major secrets I should know about?”

Geralt tilts his head and figures he should learn from his past mistakes, “He was my destiny. Renfri told me,” he pauses. The boy in blue. As if it could be anyone else. “I wished to tie myself to Yennefer instead.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

* * *

Jaskier is avoiding him.

If he walks into a room Geralt is in, he’ll make an excuse to leave. If Geralt walks in, then he’ll leave as soon as he can.

Vesemir has started training Ciri with a sword and had insisted Jaskier do so as well. Geralt watches them train and it’s the longest he’s seen the bard in a week. He’s good with a blade even though he’s never had any formal training in this life, a muscle memory. Vesemir watches with interest and a critical eye.

“Has he said anything about remembering yet?”

Eskel spars with Jaskier, pointing out improvements. Lambert is teaching Ciri and is being surprisingly gentle with his comments, Ciri looks determined with her sword that’s nearly her size. He’s proud of her. In the span of the week of lessons she’s had she’s already getting the knack of it.

“In an old journal he wrote down and sketched some dreams. He drew Kaer Morhen, what it was like after the sacking.”

Vesemir sucks in a breath. “I’ll do some research, see if it’s happened before. Could that mage of yours help?”

Yennefer’s been staying out of his way, too. Not as pointedly as Jaskier, she just spends time with Ciri or in an old laboratory she’s claimed for herself. Ciri’s taken to her incredibly fast and while Geralt doesn’t get to spend as much time with her now that she has magic lessons, he’s happy for her.

“Maybe.”

Back on the mountain, she had told him the only way to know was to root through Jaskier’s mind. And for that Jaskier would have to know.

Geralt swaps out with Lambert to train Ciri. “Go easy on me,” he smiles at her and she barks a laugh, hitting at him hard with disregard for technique.

He laughs and allows her cacophony of hits to come at him, blocking last second. Her arms tire easily with her sloppy swings and she eases off him. Geralt lets her rest for a minute, acutely aware of Jaskier just across the room still sparring with Eskel.

Ciri demands his attention again and they train properly. By the end of the session, he has taught her how to block better and how to avoid her insistent asking for piggyback rides.

Lambert doesn’t escape and carries Ciri to dinner on his back.

* * *

Two months have passed since they arrived. All of Geralt’s attempts to mend his friendship with Jaskier fall flat. Jaskier avoids him more and more, his smiles are false and he’s never as relaxed as he used to be.

It’s a problem Jaskier only has with him.

After a few weeks, his brothers stopped looking like they were seeing a ghost every time they looked at Jaskier and opened up to him. When he’s talking to Ciri he’s the closest to what he used to be. Hell, he’s even friends with Yennefer.

Geralt isn’t sure when or how that happened, but he can hear them laughing in the kitchen. He’s in the library reading a bestiary he memorised when he was thirty to distract himself. Their laughter rings through the keep, or maybe he’s just listening out for it because he rarely gets to hear Jaskier laugh now.

It was inevitable. He always knew that sometime sooner or later Jaskier would leave him, realise Geralt wasn’t worth putting up with and find a family for himself. He never expected that family to be his own while Jaskier hardly speaks to him.

Jaskier doesn’t want him. They can never go back to what they had. Geralt aches at the thought of living on the sidelines of Jaskier’s life like this for the rest of his life. He can’t fool himself any longer.

He loves him. He always has and knows that he’ll never be able to stop. Jaskier knows him like nobody else, not even from his past life, but in each and every life he always worms his way into Geralt’s heart. He is hopeless against it.

If Jaskier’s happiness comes at the cost of his own he will gladly give it. If Jaskier wants him out of the way, then he will stay out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt we are all begging you to please apologise
> 
> hope you enjoyed! let me know what you thought or some say hi on tumblr @pansexualbuchanan <3


	20. my friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay but i wanted to make this chapter the best it could be, I've been waiting to get to this point for a while! hope you enjoy <3

Geralt leaves for the contract and Jaskier can finally relax. “You never told me you knew Geralt,” Ciri turns on him.

“I wasn’t allowed to.” Although, part of him thinks he would have kept Ciri to himself either way. “Your grandmother forbid it.”

Ciri crosses her arms, “You knew he was my destiny.”

Jaskier nods, “I was there when he called for the Law of Surprise at your mother’s banquet.” If Geralt told the story he would say Jaskier had forced him to claim the law.

“You never came back this summer.”

“I know,” he sits next to her on the bed and pulls her to his side, “I got stuck in Redania, roadblocks. I couldn’t get back.”

Ciri huffs but accepts it. Then her eyes start to water up, “Everyone’s gone. Everyone we knew. I thought Mousesack survived but it was a doppler.”

All the grief that Jaskier has been holding onto lets go and he tears up. His family. His friends. At least he has Ciri. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when it happened.”

Ciri sniffles, burying her face in his chest and he’s sent back to when she was only a toddler after Pavetta died. “I’m glad, it means you survived.”

“Are you saying you don’t think I’d survive?” he jokes indignantly but it’s weak.

“No,” she says bitterly. “Nobody did.”

Jaskier holds her tighter. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly get over the loss but at least he and Ciri aren’t alone in their mourning.

“I had to give away my ring. My mother’s ring, that you gave to me,” she whispers and Jaskier looks down to see the emerald ring she had worn ever since she grew into it absent from her finger. “For some gloves.”

“Oh,” he suddenly wishes that he had more of Pavetta for her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all I had of her.”

Jaskier knows there’s nothing he can say to help. While he still has Pavetta through Ciri, she has nothing. So he holds her whilst she cries.

A while later he pops downstairs to have some dinner brought up. He spends his last few coins on three bowls of weak stew and some bread. He could play for more coin but since he’s been travelling he’s been too melancholy to play, and now they didn’t need the attention.

Geralt isn’t back by the time they go to bed. Jaskier leaves his stew on the dresser and climbs into the single bed. The mattress is lumpy and the sheets scratchy but it’s the first bed he’s slept on in weeks.

He stirs when Geralt comes back. He lies half-awake as Geralt gets ready for bed. Jaskier listens out for him to try and wake him up so they can talk but nothing happens. He drifts back to sleep with a bitter feeling in his stomach.

* * *

Strangely, Jaskier is the first to wake up. Ciri is tucked safely under Geralt’s arm in the bed next to him and he realises with sudden clarity that he isn’t needed. At all. Ciri has her destiny, her protector. Jaskier provides nothing.

It won’t be long until they leave him. He doesn’t want to be left behind; he wants to hold onto Ciri for as long as possible. Jaskier packs up his meagre belongings and heads out to wait by Roach. He doesn’t doubt that if he’s too slow he will be left behind and he can’t risk that.

About an hour later, Ciri comes running at him with Geralt close behind. “Are you leaving?” he demands, Jaskier can’t place his tone.

“What? No, I was just getting ready to leave. Didn’t want to slow you both down.”

He follows them back inside for breakfast and then keeps close for the rest of the day whilst Geralt buys them some supplies. Jaskier fiddles with his lute strap, the instrument itself hidden under his cloak; Geralt barely speaks to him beyond passing him something to carry.

When they leave town and make camp a few miles away it hits Jaskier that he’s travelling with Geralt again. It seems it’s an inescapable part of his life. It’s bitter cold and he wraps his cloak around himself tighter. At night Ciri sleeps tucked in between them and Geralt is so close Jaskier can see every rise and fall of his chest.

Years ago, he would have rejoiced at the opportunity to be this close. Foolishly, he thinks of the time he woke to Geralt holding him and the high hopes he had had. Now he lies ramrod straight, not daring to move and willing himself to fall asleep. His stomach is tight with anger and confusion about where they stand with each other.

* * *

Jaskier’s legs ache and his breath comes in sharp as he hurries to keep pace with Roach. He’s just on the verge of jogging and has been for hours with no end in sight.

He’s not surprised. Geralt never cared for how long or fast he made them walk before why should he now when he had Ciri. She’s the reason why he’s here, the reason why he isn’t letting himself fall behind.

That doesn’t stop him sending glares at the back of Geralt’s head every few minutes. Even in the cold, he can feel sweat sticking his clothes to his skin. The navy winter outfit is woven from thick wool as opposed to his summer linens and grows more uncomfortable by the second.

He nearly slips on the icy ground at one point and still, they don’t stop.

Finally, Geralt slows Roach and they stop by the side of the road. Jaskier doesn’t care that it’s thick with ice he flops to the ground and stretches out his tense muscles. It’ll be worse when they start back up again; he can feel his legs shaking.

The jerky they eat for lunch barely satiates his rumbling stomach but he doesn’t dare complain. If Geralt sends him away again he’ll have to listen.

“You should ride Roach with Ciri.”

Jaskier thinks he might be hallucinating. “Oh, it’s fine. You don’t have to.” Geralt never let him ride Roach unless he was injured. Was he keeping him around out of pity? As a favour for Ciri?

“You need rest,” Geralt says with no room to argue. Jaskier hesitantly climbs onto Roach with Ciri and they set off again. His legs ache but it’s better than walking.

“Will you sing?” Ciri asks quietly and he can never say no to her. He sings softly, a sad song he’d never shared for an audience before and now it’s the only thing he can think to sing.

_This is the hardest story,  
That I have ever told,  
No hope, _ _no_ _love,_ _no_ _glory,  
Happy endings gone forevermore  
I feel as if I'm_ _wasting,  
And I_ _m_ _wasting_ _every day_

_Two o'clock in the morning,  
_ _Something’_ _on my mind,  
Can't get no rest,  
Keep walking around,  
If I pretend that nothing ever went wrong,_

_I c_ _ould_ _get to my sleep_

_I c_ _ould_ _think that we just carried on_

_Oh,_ _I feel as if I'm wasting,  
And I'm_ _wasting_ _every day_

_A little bit of love_

_Little bit of love_

_This is the way you left me,  
I'm not pretending,  
No hope, no love, no glory,  
No happy ending_

_This is the way that we love,  
Like its forever,  
Then live the rest of our lives_ _,  
_ _But_ _not together_

_This is the way you left me,  
I'm not pretending,  
No hope, no love, no glory,  
No happy ending_

Jaskier glances over at Geralt when he finishes singing but the Witcher has no reaction to the song. He sags in disappointment. Of course. He shouldn’t have expected anything from Geralt, that was what had landed him here in the first place.

* * *

_He’s sat watching the waves, the sand moves beneath his fingers as he traces patterns. His bones hurt but he’s not injured; it’s a low but constant pain. There’s a pressure against his back and arms around his waist._

_Jaskier looks down at his hands. They’re old and wrinkled, veins prominent under the thin skin littered with age spots. He’s going to die. He doesn’t know how he knows but he does._

_He wants to run away from whatever this dream is but can’t. His body relaxes into the person behind him. Jaskier wants to scream but all he can do is smile._

A high pitched scream wakes him up. It’s right by his ear. Ciri is thrashing in the bedroll next to him and Geralt is a few paces away clutching at his ears.

“Wake up, dear heart,” he speaks softly, shaking her. Her eyes fly open.

Geralt comes over and comforts her until she falls asleep again but Jaskier is wide awake. They sit in silence and he dares to hope that Geralt might finally say something. He doesn’t and the onus is on him to start a conversation once again.

Jaskier tells him about Ciri’s power, what he saw when she was a baby. Geralt correctly guesses it’s why she’s being hunted.

“I don’t know what they want with her,” Jaskier whispers. He can only imagine the horrors Nilfgaard would put Ciri through if they caught her – using her for her powers could be the least of her worries.

“I’ll keep her safe. I’ll keep you both safe.”

Jaskier nods, he doesn’t doubt that Geralt will – the one thing he has done for him is kept him safe all those years. But that was all he was willing to do for Jaskier.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s waiting for an apology or for Geralt to tell him to piss off. Whenever he dares look his way the Witcher isn’t looking at him, never mind attempting to speak to him. Ciri is doing most of the talking for both of them and Jaskier is eternally grateful because he doesn’t think he can talk without spilling everything.

It’s not like he wants an apology so things can go back to what they were before. It’s not like he’s been desperate for an apology since the mountain; he had long since made his peace with his place in Geralt’s life. That was before they were travelling together again, though, and Geralt hasn’t even so much as mentioned it.

He supposes it’s asking too much. Geralt had meant what he said on the mountain, he wouldn’t apologise for something he didn’t mean. Still, he can feel the rage building that Geralt won’t even give him a mere ‘sorry’ for it all.

They’re close to Kaer Morhen; the mountain range that had been in the distance is now close. The route takes them far away from any town and down an old country lane that is mostly grown over and being reclaimed by the forest.

Along the way, Jaskier spots an estate and a manor that has been abandoned. He can easily picture it in it’s prime – well-kept house, blooming gardens, a large stable. Now, all that’s left is rot and ruin. “Shame to see,” he can’t take his eyes off the house. The sight fills him with a terrible longing sadness. “Wonder why it was left.”

“The lord died a few hundred years ago.”

A small whine leaves Jaskier’s throat without thinking. He has the inexplicable urge to go to the house and fix it up. Restore it to what it used to be. They pass by and he doesn’t look back but all he can think about is the decaying manor and the familiarity of it.

* * *

Jaskier thinks his feet might fall off from how cold they are. With each step his boots sink ankle-deep into the snow. He wants to cry from the pain of how cold he is, caught somewhere between feeling nothing and feeling like the cold is burning him.

The wind whips too harshly to let tears fall and dry his eyes with a vengeful frost. Ciri is wrapped in as many spare blankets as possible, he can barely see her face and Geralt guides them up the mountain seemingly nonplussed by the cold.

His teeth have long since stopped chattering. Jaskier thinks his jaw might be frozen in place. Snow has dampened his hair and his fringe falls in front of his face collecting ice but he daren’t move his hands from where they are tucked under his arms to move it.

It’s the longest day of his life. They woke with sunrise and the bottom of the tent had near frozen to the ground. Geralt says they are nearly there and Jaskier nearly weeps at the news.

He would kill to be out of this cold.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long it’s been when the castle finally falls into sight. It’s bigger than he had expected, jutting out of the mountain face and rising tall and threatening. One of the towers is completely crumbled but despite some areas of damage, Jaskier can tell the rest has been patched up.

As they briefly stop at the stables to sort out Roach, Jaskier takes the time to imagine what the castle would have looked like in it’s prime. Except the more he thinks about it the more he can see it damaged, in a worse wreck than it is now.

Geralt leads them inside at last and the first hit of warmth is heavenly. Maybe he’s dead but he feels his cheeks tingle as they slowly warm and stretches out his fingers and toes to send blood back to them. He hears voices, other Witchers, and falls behind Geralt and Ciri. His stomach turns as he prepares for them to not agree to him staying and send him back down the mountain.

Both of them have a place here, this is Geralt’s home and Ciri is for all intents and purposes his daughter now. He’s just here. He stays a few steps behind as they shuffle into the small hall.

The other Witchers whose names he doesn’t know are all looking at him. He wishes Geralt and Ciri’s bodies shielded him better from their glares. He already knows he’s an intruder. Jaskier just hopes that they won’t throw him out because the snow had already started falling and there was no way he could make it down the mountain pass alone.

“This is Jaskier. My friend.”

Jaskier can’t help the breath that leaves his lungs at Geralt’s words. In the twenty years he has known the man he has heard him call him friend a handful of times. He had pointedly said he wasn’t his friend more times than Jaskier could even count.

He doesn’t know what to think. Geralt doesn’t apologise and then goes and calls him his friend? Jaskier wonders if this is his way of making up for all the hurt he has caused him. It’s a poor attempt at resolving everything.

Geralt had assured him on the way that he would be welcomed. Now facing the cluster of judging yellow eyes he’s not so sure. Luckily, they say nothing and Geralt bring him and Ciri to rooms next to each other.

The castle is a dreadful sight, if he’s being honest. He can tell it could be beautiful with upkeep but nobody has been managing it beyond functionality for a long time.

There’s a thick layer of dust on most surfaces and he’s seen several cracks in the roof and holes in the wall. A nasty draft runs through the hallways. His room is very sparsely decorated.

He’s been given a large double bed that has what looks to be a new quilt. It looks thick and several woollen blankets are piled at the end of the bed. There’s an armchair that looks a bit moth-eaten. A copper bathtub sits in the corner turning green.

“Is it suitable?” Geralt’s voice breaks the silence.

“Yes, thank you. I know you didn’t have to bring me here.”

“I know.”

“Right,” Jaskier isn’t sure what to do with this newfound generosity. He wants to welcome it, as he would have only a few years ago, but it doesn’t make sense. “Thank you. Again.”

“Your welcome.” Geralt leaves and Jaskier is left in the silence. That’s how it always was, wasn’t it? Geralt providing Jaskier with some life-saving feat, be it a monster or winter shelter, and Jaskier was the burden who could never give enough thanks to earn a friendship.

He wants nothing more than a hot bath and to soak his cold bones but the bath is hardly clean and he has no clue where to get hot water from. Jaskier thinks there might be some hot running water on a lower floor. Geralt had mentioned something about hot springs up the mountain at some point he was sure.

Things have been tense since they reunited. Geralt still hasn’t apologised. Jaskier realises that he never will – he can’t take walking on eggshells anymore, from now on he will try his best to ignore the pangs of hurt in his chest when he looks at Geralt. He will learn to forgive him even if he gets no apology.

* * *

Lambert is glaring at Jaskier and he swears the Witcher hasn’t blinked in over a minute. Eskel is doing the opposite and not looking at him whatsoever. Jaskier just shovels his porridge as fast as possible to get this over with.

It’s clear he’s not welcome here. Geralt never said much about Kaer Morhen but it was common knowledge that humans weren’t allowed. Ciri gets a pass as his Child Surprise but there’s nothing warranting him being here. Jaskier isn’t even entirely sure why Geralt brought him here when it would be easier to leave him in that no-name town.

He hears a thud under the table and Lambert looks away. Ciri picks up the conversation but Jaskier isn’t in much of a mood to be his usual happy charming self. When Geralt leaves with her to give her a tour it’s a welcome relief.

Jaskier is left alone with the other Witchers and quickly gathers their empty bowls to start washing up. Anything to keep busy and out of the way. Lambert is lingering in the kitchen door watching him.

“Are you just going to stand there?” he snips, his uncomfortableness getting the better of him.

Lambert looks a little taken aback, “It’s my home, I can stand where I want.”

“Right, of course,” Jaskier averts his gaze, scrubbing at a bowl harder than he needs to. “I didn’t ask to come here, y’know? Geralt just brought me. For Ciri, I think.” He doesn’t know why he says it but he feels compelled to defend his place here. He shudders at the thought of them kicking him out now.

“You’ve known Geralt what? Twenty years?”

Jaskier nods once. Twenty years. All that time and Geralt still won’t even look at him.

“Is it what you thought it would be like?”

No, Jaskier never would have thought this is where their friendship, companionship, whatever, ended. Then he realises that Lambert means the castle, not Geralt, “Oh, yeah, I guess so.”

Lambert raises an eyebrow, “Really? You thought it would look like this?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I mean castle up on a mountain, can’t go wrong with that vision.” Jaskier doesn’t understand why Lambert cares so much about this but maybe it was just a Witcher thing.

Lambert is silent and Jaskier slows down on the last bowl. The Witcher leaves without another word and Jaskier lets out a deep breath. It’s going to be a long winter.

* * *

Learning to forgive is harder than Jaskier thought it would be. A week has gone by and Geralt still hasn’t said anything. The Witchers don’t like him, he can tell, whenever he’s around they’ll glare at him or avoid him. To make it easier on himself Jaskier tries to stay out of everyone’s way.

The only person he talks to is Ciri beyond an awkward conversation with one of Geralt’s brothers. There’s been plenty of time for Geralt to speak to him but he hasn’t. Well, maybe Jaskier is just finally seeing what he’d ignored his whole life – that they weren’t friends.

It’s a new normal he’s going to have to get used to. The worst part is he doesn’t even want Geralt in that way anymore, doesn’t even particularly want him as a friend – all he wants is an acknowledgement for the time he dedicated to the man, half his life, and a bit of closure.

Jaskier knows that the chances of that happening are next to nothing. So, all he can hope is that as the winter passes he can let go of his want for an apology. He may not be able to forgive, but maybe he can forget.

* * *

Vesemir tells him at breakfast that he’ll start training with Ciri. It’s not that Jaskier is averse to fighting, he’s been in many a bar fight in his lifetime. However, a bar fight with his hands and whatever was in his vicinity had a low chance of actually killing either party. A sword could kill in an instant and that thought didn’t sit right with him. It never had. As a child, he’d avoided his sword lessons as much as possible.

He admired those who had mastered the art, Geralt and the Witchers were a marvel to behold when fighting. But being the one holding the sword wasn’t something he was interested in.

With Nilfgaard after Ciri, though, Jaskier doubts he would be able to avoid it in the future. Which is why he is on one side of the hall with Eskel with a dull sword in his hand. Lambert and Ciri are training next to them and he can feel Geralt watching him.

“No, like this,” Eskel corrects his stance and hold for the fourth time.

“I’m shit at this,” Jaskier grimaces, raising the heavy sword back into position.

Eskel shrugs, “You’re just starting.” He pauses and looks at Jaskier with a tight expression. “You’ll get the hang of it once you start. Trust me. You’re a natural, I can tell.”

Jaskier very much doubts that but appreciates the sentiment. They start slow at first with Eskel calling out what moves he should make. It’s not so hard but Jaskier knows this is the easiest part. Eskel makes a few corrections but for the most part, Jaskier keeps in proper form as they slowly build up the pace.

Lambert switches with Geralt and Jaskier is acutely aware of him. He’s so gentle with Ciri it’s almost unbelievable. Jaskier is happy for her, for both of them, to have found family within each other. The other part of him is angry, like with Yennefer all over again, that Geralt did have the capacity to be kind and loving and simply chose not to treat him that way.

“Don’t get distracted,” Eskel reprimands, “Distractions cost you your life.”

Jaskier hardens his gaze on their fight, blocking out the rest of the hall. No distractions.

* * *

“Why do I have Lambert’s shitty vodka when you have what looks to be very lovely moonshine?”

Eskel smirks, “Because.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Thank you for your informative response.”

“If you drank this you’d die.”

Jaskier puts his hands on his hips, “I’ll have you know that I’ve been drinking longer than I can remember and my alcohol intolerance is very high.” He reaches out to try and steal the glass of clear liquor but Eskel holds it out of reach.

“It’s literally poison.”

“You don’t scare me.”

Now Eskel rolls his eyes so hard it must hurt. “It’s alcohol specifically for Witchers. Regular alcohol takes us ages to get drunk on. So, this is for us. Not for humans.”

Jaskier groans, resigning himself to Lambert’s vodka which he would swear is poisonous to humans as well. “Spoilsport.” And, because the vodka is strong and he’s already quite tipsy, he opens his mouth, “Did you not like me when I got here?”

Eskel chokes on his drink, “What?”

“You all kind of avoided me, or spent a lot of time glaring at me,” Jaskier shrugs, avoiding his gaze and swirling his finger over the rim of his glass. “Figured you didn’t like me. Understandable,” he adds quickly, “Most people don’t.”

Eskel gives him a sad look, “No, it wasn’t that. It was just hard for us to get used to having you around.”

Jaskier nods, sipping the vodka and finding the taste is nearly manageable now. “Yeah, makes sense. Not used to humans here, huh?”

“No, not really,” Eskel says with an odd tone, taking a large swig of his drink.

Ciri had no trouble fitting in but Jaskier knew it was different with her. She’s Geralt’s destiny, his Child Surprise, she didn’t count as a human imposing on their home in the same way.

“It’s good to have you here,” Eskel speaks up when the silence stretches, “Makes a nice change. Maybe you could sing for us sometime.”

Jaskier perks up at that. Geralt never asked him to sing and he assumed all Witchers were the same but maybe, just maybe, he could be useful. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

* * *

The morning light trickles in through his window and Jaskier buries his face in his pillow. Another sleepless night. Every night since he arrived here has been plagued by nightmares.

He can’t get back to sleep after them anymore and what little sleep he does get is hardly restful. The only relief is that not all of them are filled with instances where he is dying or in some terrible situation. Some of them are nice, planting a garden, laughing with Geralt, playing a lute that he doesn’t own. But even these are distressing, he can’t move or make his own decisions despite being aware it’s a dream.

Reluctantly, he drags himself out of bed and down to breakfast. He can already hear people talking and it makes his head hurt. He takes a seat beside Eskel as far away from Geralt as he can.

Geralt spares him a brief look and that’s all. Jaskier makes himself a plate and focusses on eating, taking small bites when he doesn’t want to eat anything. Each bite is painful and slow. Everyone else is in high spirits, or maybe he’s just in low ones by comparison. It sounds like everyone is talking over each other and each sound sends shivers down his spine. He winces at the scrape of utensils against plates.

Vesemir ushers them over to the main hall, now only used for training when it got too cold to go outside. A sword gets shoved into his hands and somehow it’s Lambert he’s up against.

The first clash of swords send waves up his arm and he nearly drops it. The adrenaline wakes him up just enough to stay alert but he’s still sloppy. Sloppier than usual.

“You alright?” Lambert slows his attack.

Jaskier nods, “Just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Can’t let that stop you in the real world.”

Jaskier swallows, takes a deep breath, and continues.

* * *

He doesn’t understand why Geralt brought him here when he’s taken every opportunity to avoid talking to him. Apart from the occasional small talk over dinner or an acknowledging nod if they pass in the hall they don’t talk. He doesn't understand why Geralt called him 'friend' and then practically abandoned him.

Jaskier isn’t even angry over the lack of apology anymore. Now he just feels unwelcome. Knows he isn’t wanted here and this time he isn’t letting himself believe he is.

Every second in Geralt’s presence reminds him that his place isn’t here.

He’s spent his whole life going unwanted, it’s nothing new and something he can deal with. This time he can’t escape it. Everything here belongs to the Witchers, to Geralt, he can’t flit from court to court soaking up brief moments of adoration.

He’s stuck living this life. In spring he won’t even be able to escape it because he’ll stay with Ciri. Part of him fears what will happen to him if come spring Geralt realises what a mistake he’s made and forces him to leave.

Because living like this is torment but living with no purpose, no family and no love sounds like no life at all.

* * *

_There’s a girl with blazing orange eyes. She sits in a meadow, her chair holding her twisted body and she holds out a hand towards him. “_ _You will live forever, I swear it. You will see everything you ever loved die and turn to ash. You will walk this Sphere and regret in the face of all you have lost.”_ _Jaskier stumbles backwards. His body is small, so small._

_He is small but it doesn’t matter when he can run. He’ll run and run until his imagination takes him away from this tiny town. Until the Witcher he saw when he was a boy comes back and is taking him away._

_He is grown but there’s a blonde man with a belt, beating and whipping his back. Jaskier curls in on himself making himself as small as possible. The blows are never ending and he feels his skin split open with each hit._

_There’s a tower, tall and rising above the trees. The magic is overwhelming and Jaskier runs as far away as he can. Runs far and fast, wishing he was as small as the chamomile flowers that grow around him._

_Jaskier is looking through that window in Rinde. He’s never felt as small, as unseen, as unworthy as he has then. Geralt has chosen someone else, would never choose him._

_“I choose you, too,” a voice echoes in his mind. It sounds like Geralt but it can’t be because Geralt is there. With Yennefer. And he will never choose Jaskier._

_He sinks to his knees, “Traitor,” a voice spits. Jaskier knows how this one ends already. A man his age, muscular and blonde-haired, holding a sword. Jaskier feels his body fall to the floor as the sword cuts into his stomach._

Jaskier wakes panting heavily. The sheets stick to his skin with sweat and his chest hurts with the movement of his heart beating so forcefully. It takes a long while for him to register that the ringing in his ears is actually screaming.

Ciri.

He moves out of bed but his movements are sluggish and slowed down. He can feel the whip of magic moving through the walls but he fights against it and throws open his bedroom door.

“Ciri?”

Geralt and Eskel are pushed high against the opposite wall, pinned in place. Jaskier frowns, unsure why he can still move so freely. Ciri’s bedroom door is open and Geralt tries casting signs to stop the magic like he had at Pavetta’s banquet. It’s futile.

She’s stopped screaming and Jaskier can hear her whispering in Elder. It’s not her voice, not her words, he knows. He pushes against the strong wind into her room. He hasn’t seen this sort of power since she was a baby.

“Ciri, wake up,” he says in Elder, “It’s just a dream.”

Her mouth snaps shut and she thrashes. The magic swells and then crashes, sending furniture back down to the floor. The second the force drops he rushes to her side as she blinks awake. “It’s okay,” he whispers, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

She can’t reply, only taking in deep shuddering gasps. Geralt is by her side within seconds taking her other hand and helping calm her. He takes her for a warm drink and he is left alone with Eskel and Lambert.

“What the fuck,” Lambert looks around the destroyed room.

Jaskier starts to right the furniture and clean up as best he can, “She’s always had power. It runs in her family line.”

Eskel joins him, helping put the heavy wardrobe the right way up. “Would have been a nice heads up that it was this much power. She could destroy the castle with that.”

“It’s new, she’s not trained.”

“We could try teaching her signs,” Lambert suggests. “Maybe Vesemir could dig up some spells.”

Jaskier doubts that would be enough to help her control chaos, but she’s already learning how to fight so she may as well learn magic.

* * *

Jaskier is walking back to his room when he sees Yennefer standing in the hallway. He yelps at the sight of her and clutches his hand to his chest, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m staying here now.”

Well, isn’t that great. Not only does he get to live with Geralt ignoring him at every opportunity he now has to witness his and Yennefer’s love affair yet again. If they weren’t snowed in, he would be leaving as soon as possible.

“Wonderful,” he mutters. At least Ciri’s room is between his and Geralt so he won’t have to hear them. He moves past her, he’s a few paces away when she calls after him.

“Jaskier, I’m here for Ciri,” she pauses, “To train her.”

Ciri’s power isn’t something she can control on her own. He’ll begrudgingly admit that Yennefer is powerful enough to teach her. The part of him that’s living in fear of the day Ciri outgrows him spikes; she’s found her destiny in Geralt and now has Yennefer, what use will he be when she has them.

He nods shakily, “Right. She’s lucky to have you,” he forces a smile and hurries away.

* * *

“Jas, look,” Ciri slaps his arm several times to get his attention before pointing her hand out at a paperweight and carefully making it lift into the air. The ivy leaf she holds in her hand withers and crumbles. “Yennefer taught me.”

Jaskier can’t help but smile at her, “That’s amazing, cub. You’ll be able to lift me soon.”

It had taken him a while to get used to Yennefer’s presence around the keep. Ciri always came to him after her lessons to show him what she had learnt and he can tell that she’s slowly becoming more confident and less afraid of her power. For that reason alone, he’s warming to the mage.

There’s also the fact that she isn’t with Geralt.

She sleeps on a different floor to the three of them and Jaskier rarely sees them together. Yennefer is less viscous towards him, now, they still bite and snark at each other but it’s friendly. Jaskier thinks it’s because this time neither of them are fighting for Geralt’s affections. Not that Yennefer ever had to fight them.

He never thought that he’d consider Yennefer a friend but he finds that he does now. The Witchers have all treated him like one of their own but he can’t shake the sense that there’s something on the tip of their tongues, something wrong that he can’t pin down.

* * *

After two months of being at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier is running on empty. He avoids sleep as much as he can because he’s plagued by nightmares every night. They're inescapable. He doesn’t remember what normal dreams feel like anymore.

He has a stack of parchment on his desk with notes and sketches of them. The other Witchers appear in his dreams now, too. The process doesn’t help as much as it used to. The more he dreams the more lost he feels. Nothing makes sense.

Part of him fears they might be prophetic. The recurring image of a sword and a battlefield – Nilfgaard was on the rise, after all. He sickens with dread at the thought that his dreams might hold the future.

Except, in the dreams, Geralt is gentle with him. Soft smiles, loving embraces and kisses. Jaskier laughs to himself; Geralt never smiled at him or laughed with him, why in the hell would that be in his future?

Which leaves him back at square one.

The library isn’t much help, most of the tomes kept there were on monsters not nightmares. It also doesn’t help that Geralt likes to go there to avoid him, so Jaskier doesn’t get much of a chance to properly search through the depths of Witcher knowledge.

He rubs his eyes, they sting from being awake for so long. Still, he dreads the fitful sleep he will fall into. He was close to asking one of the other Witchers for a sleeping potion. It’s taking a toll on him, he can tell. When he spars and trains in the morning, he’s getting sloppy and making glaring mistakes. But he doesn’t want to sleep.

Jaskier stays up composing songs until his voice goes hoarse and his fingers hurt. He falls asleep from exhaustion.

* * *

_There’s a pain in his chest. And his leg. And his back. His whole body is alight with pain._

_Something swings him through the air and back down onto the ground. His bones are broken and his skin is ripped open. He can feel the blood pouring from his wounds in steady bumps in time with his heartbeat._

_The pain fades but the fear doesn’t. He can’t move. The sun is blinding his eyes._

_His lungs are aching. Every breath feels like knives scratching the inside of his lungs. He can’t lift his arms, he’s too weak. His skin is stretched tight against his bones. He needs water. His mouth is so dry. He can’t form the words to ask for anything._

_He coughs and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts._

_Someone may as well be taking a bat to his back. His body wracks with the coughs. He wishes someone would put a stop to this._

_It’s not his lungs or his back that hurt, it’s his chest. Deep and piercing and sudden. He clutches at the mossy ground but it still hurts. Oh gods, it hurts._

_It doesn’t hurt._

_He knows he’s going to die. Something is going to kill him. The room is peaceful and still. It’s clean, neat and homely. He looks at hands that aren’t his own – they are old and covered in brown age spots._

_Out of the window, he sees the waves crashing softly to shore._

_Something is going to kill him._

_He doesn’t want to die. He can’t stop it. He doesn’t know what’s going to kill him._

_But it’s here._

“Jaskier!” It’s Ciri who shakes him away with a panicked look on her face.

He’s sweating and panting. His heart is beating so hard he can see it moving his chest.

“Ciri?”

“You were screaming,” she explains, settling beside him when she’s sure he’s calmed down. “Usually it’s me who does that.”

Jaskier sighs and wipes his hand down his face. “I’m sorry for waking you. I assume for once you were getting a peaceful sleep.”

“I was, but don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault,” she assures and tucks herself into his side.

Jaskier wraps his arms around the girl and lets the feeling him ground him back to reality.

“Nightmare?”

“Something like that.”

“You can talk about it.”

Jaskier smiles sadly, “I’m not sure how.” They lie in silence and Jaskier breathes as evenly as he can. He lists everything he can see in the room. He lists everything he can feel. It was just a dream.

The peace is broken by Geralt opening the door with a frantic look in his eyes. He’s shirtless and his hair is all messed up from sleeping. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier nods weakly.

“I heard you screaming.”

“He had a nightmare,” Ciri explains.

Jaskier doesn’t understand the look in Geralt’s face. It softens from panic into something he can’t read. Somewhere between pity and less immediate worry is his best guess.

“Are you alright?” he asks again calmer this time.

“Yeah,” Jaskier relies softly with a weak smile. It’s the most Geralt has spoken to him in a week.

Geralt hovers, he looks torn between leaving and coming further into the room to join them. He decides on leaving, ordering Ciri back to her own room before he goes.

Ciri leaves Jaskier reluctantly but he’s left alone again. The silence is deafening. The only sounds in the castle being the constant wind outside echoing through the keep.

Jaskier isn’t an idiot. He knows that the closer he is to Ciri the worse his nightmares get. It’s the only correlation he can. Her power is getting stronger with each day she learns how better to control it. And with her power comes more dreams.

He doesn’t know why, still doesn’t know what they mean. Yennefer might be able to tell him, or he could ask her for a sleeping draught like the one Mousesack used to make. He doesn’t want to bother her, though, his place at Kaer Morhen is subject to the fact that he isn’t a burden.

* * *

“Cheat,” Yennefer grumbles, finishing the rest of her drink in three gulps and making a disgusted noise. She swipes the cards off the table and shuffles them again. Jaskier laughs and refills their drinks.

“It’s not cheating if you don’t catch me.”

Yennefer takes it as a challenge and watches him with a keen eye on their next round. She could easily read his mind to find out when he swaps the cards in his favour but he doesn’t feel that tickle. He wins again and she glares harder.

“Fine,” she huffs, “Teach me.”

Jaskier shuffles the cards with a shit-eating grin, “Now, now, a magician never reveals his secrets.”

“I could make you.”

“I know, but you won’t.”

She doesn’t argue and they play again, he still wins. Yennefer finishes her drink as per the rules and her face twists at the taste of Lambert’s homebrew liquor. Jaskier laughs, sipping his second drink while Yennefer is on her fifth. She’s verging on drunk and he’s never seen her this loose before, he likes it.

Jaskier takes pity on her and tries to show her how to move the cards, his fingers sliding over them as easily as his lute strings. Yennefer tries but her movements are fumbled. “Ah-ha!” she flips the card over to reveal the winning card, except it isn’t.

She glares at him but he can’t help but burst into laughter. She holds it for a moment before laughing with him too.

“You’re surprisingly good company, bard,” Yennefer slurs slightly, “Even with the stench of that curse.”

Jaskier pauses, licks his lips, then tilts his head, “Curse?”

Yennefer sits up straighter, looking about as sober as he also suddenly feels. “Um,” she blinks rapidly a few times. If she had said anything else Jaskier would be revelling in this rare moment of the sorceress was struggling for words.

“Yen, what do you mean ‘curse’?”

“Um,” Yennefer says again, taking a long gulp of vodka, “It’s not really my place to say.”

“Oh, ho, ho, I think it is,” Jaskier stands up, now towering over her, “Because if I’m cursed then it’s my place to know it.”

Yennefer winces, “You’re cursed, Jaskier.”

Jaskier nods, “Thanks for the clarification. What curse? How long have you known?”

“I’ve known since the djinn, I didn’t know what until the mountain.”

Jaskier exhales sharply, “Ah excellent, two of my fondest memories. Care to share?”

Yennefer stands and brushes past him, “Jaskier, really, I’m not the person to be telling you this.”

Jaskier spins around but she has her back to him. “Yen. Please.”

“Ask Geralt.”

Jaskier’s heart stops. “Why?” his voice wobbles, “What does Geralt have to do with this.” Gods, had Geralt cursed him? Had he been trying to get rid of him that badly?

“Your thoughts are louder than you think,” Yennefer sighs and Jaskier feels a small tickle as the presence of her magic in his mind recedes. “And you’re wrong.”

No matter how much he pleads Yennefer won’t divulge what the curse is. So, he finds himself storming through the keep looking for Geralt. He finds him in the library.

Jaskier opens the door so hard it bangs against the wall and Geralt jumps at the sound.

“I’m cursed?”

If possible, Geralt pales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh damn geralt cant avoid shit anymore :0
> 
> the song is Mika - Happy Ending! Let me know what you thought <33


	21. tell me the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moment we've all been waiting for! (and also somehow what I think is the shortest chapter, at 4.3k, not sure how that happened) hope you enjoy!! <33

“I’m cursed?”

Geralt feels his stomach drop and his spine run cold. His mouth is suddenly dry and he thinks he may have stopped breathing. Jaskier is still stood there staring at him with anger and he’s frozen in place.

“Geralt,” Jaskier practically growls, “Tell me the truth.”

Slowly, he stands on shaky legs. “Yes, you’re cursed.” His mind races with questions. How does Jaskier know? What does he think? What does it mean? All he knows for certain is that he can’t keep it to himself anymore. “It’s a reincarnation curse.”

Jaskier steps back, “What do you mean?”

Geralt runs his hand over his face and turns around so he doesn’t have to look at him. He leans his hands on the table and squeezes his eyes shut. “It means when you die you are reborn. New life, new name. Same person, mostly, sort of.”

He can hear Jaskier’s racing heartbeat, the repeated open and shut of his mouth. “How do you know this?” he asks quietly.

“I’ve met you before,” Geralt is scarcely in control of his words, he feels like he’s watching the conversation from somewhere else. “I knew you. In your past lives.”

Jaskier makes a choking sound and begins to pace. Geralt still doesn’t look up. The room fills with the scent of anger, sadness, confusion. “Why did you never tell me?” he asks, his voice an almost hysterical laugh.

Finally, Geralt turns to face him. “You never remember me. I didn’t know what would happen if I told you.” It’s not entirely untrue, there had always been the possibility that if Jaskier knew then his mind might not be able to handle it. But his main reason was pure selfishness, to live in ignorant bliss and enjoy their time together and then to save himself from further harm.

“Right, yeah,” Jaskier scoffs, “It’s not like it’s something that very much affects my life and how I live it.”

“Does it?”

Jaskier runs his hand through his hair and tugs lightly. “I don’t know,” he yells, “You just told me I basically will never die. No afterlife for me. No whatever everyone else gets. Just life after life, apparently.”

“I should have told you sooner.”

“You think?” Jaskier rounds on him and Geralt winces, “You think it might have been the one thing I deserve to know? Melitele’s tits, Geralt, it’s one thing to shun my friendship for twenty years it’s another to keep that to yourself. To find out through _Yennefer.”_

Geralt sighs, “How much did she tell you?”

“Fuck all. That’s not the point. How many people know about this? How many people other than me, the one who should know, knows?”

Geralt does a quick tally in his head and knows he won’t like the answer, “Six, as far as I’m aware.”

Jaskier looks murderous and Geralt takes a step back, the table hitting against him. “You had no right,” he mutters, teeth clenched. “No right whatsoever. It’s my life, Geralt."

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier nods then shakes his head in disbelief, “Sorry isn’t quite good enough.” He looks at Geralt, the anger turning into a look of betrayal, and walks away. The library door slams behind him for good measure.

Geralt sinks to the floor and punches the wooden chair next to him. He hisses at the sting of his knuckles but knows it’s the least he deserves. Fuck. Fuck. He should have talked to Jaskier about the journal he found; he should have never found out like this.

It’s his own fault for letting it get to this. His fault for being weak and letting Jaskier stick around way back in Posada. His fault for not being truthful. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

* * *

Yennefer comes to him an hour later. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor and she stands above him, arms folded and looking unimpressed. “I’m not sorry for telling him.”

“He needed to know,” Geralt admits solemnly. 

She hums, “Finally seeing sense? He wants to undo the curse.”

Geralt’s head snaps up, “What?” If the curse was removed then when Jaskier dies he’ll definitely never come back. He might die then and there, the curse could be the only thing keeping him alive. He can’t let that happen. “No.”

“It’s not your choice.”

He scrambles to his feet, “Yen, please. He could die. He will die.”

“Like I said, it’s not your choice.”

“Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Her face darkens, “I think he does. Maybe you should stop trying to take choices away from people.”

“Yen-”

She leaves as fast as she came and Geralt is left alone again.

Geralt can admit he fucked it up this time around. He let Jaskier close to him when he shouldn’t have and he’s been hurt again. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t make the same mistake next time; that he’d be content with knowing that Jaskier was out there somewhere, would always be out there. What would life be like without that? He thinks back to after Julian died when he believed he would never come back. And, gods, Julian, what would he say if he could see what he’s become.

He thinks about Yennefer’s words and realises she’s right. He’s spent too much time controlling what Jaskier knew about his own life. It’s not his choice. No matter what he thinks about removing the curse it’s not his decision.

It means he loses him. Forever. In many ways he’s already lost him but this would mean his life. Whether the removal of the curse ends it, or the next time he dies being final, it means Jaskier will die.

Geralt leaves the library and makes his way back to his room. Jaskier’s bag of clothes and his journal still sits tucked away. At the very least, if he does die, Geralt will still have this to hold onto.

* * *

A few hours later there’s a knock on the door. Probably Lambert. “Come in.”

“Hi,” it’s Jaskier.

Geralt sits up on his bed and waves for Jaskier to sit with him. Slowly, Jaskier comes and perches on his bed. He’s never been here, Geralt realises, the last time he was in this room he was Julian.

“Hi.”

Jaskier rubs his fingertips together, “You knew me? Before?”

“I did.”

“Can you tell me about me?”

Geralt certainly hadn’t been expecting that, “What do you want to know?”

Jaskier shrugs a little and looks at the door like he’s considering leaving. “I’m not sure. How well did you know me?”

“Pretty well,” Geralt darts the true answer, unsure how to say that they were together and in love in previous lives. If Jaskier knew that he'd probably look at him in disgust.

“Am I the same as I used to be?”

Jaskier’s calmer than before and this is the most they’ve spoken in weeks, Geralt doesn’t want to cause any more problems between them. He needs to be careful, be as honest as possible without telling Jaskier something that might make him even angrier at him.

“Yes, and no,” Geralt still doesn’t know how Jaskier could be so different every time but still fundamentally him. “You’re always you, but not an exact copy.”

Jaskier nods, “Right. What was I called?”

Geralt pauses, “Dandelion, when I first met you.” Jaskier quirks a smile. “Then Buttercup.”

“Still sticking with a flower theme then,” Jaskier muses.

“And Julian,” Geralt tries his best not to choke on that name.

Jaskier scrunches his nose, “That breaks the pattern.”

Geralt hums in amusement. There’s a tentative peace between them, a snippet of the old familiarity and comfort they used to have in each other.

“How did I die?”

Geralt’s heart stops for a moment, he wants to keep it to himself but Jaskier deserves to know. “Dandelion died, or you died, from a monster. For Buttercup it was the plague.”

Jaskier holds up a hand to stop him, “The plague?”

Geralt hums an affirmative.

“As in your friend, ‘I haven’t seen you since the plague’ Mousesack?” Geralt can’t read Jaskier’s face but he nods. Jaskier’s jaw drops and he shakes his head. “He knew about me?”

“He did.”

“That fucker,” Jaskier tuts, but he doesn’t sound truly angry. “Explains a lot, actually. And how did I die as Julian?”

Geralt sighs heavily, Julian died because of him and the poison he made for him, “Old age.”

Jaskier runs his fingers through the furs on Geralt’s bed and he’s so close that he could reach out and entangle their fingers together. He keeps his hands firmly in his lap. “Will you look after Ciri? If removing the curse does kill me?”

“You know I will.”

“I know,” Jaskier smiles sadly.

“Can I be there?” Geralt finds himself asking, voice tentative because he’s all too aware that Jaskier probably doesn’t want to see him. “When you do it?”

Jaskier looks at him for a long time and then nods shakily, “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

Geralt hovers as Yennefer places her hands in the air just above Jaskier. Her eyes are closed and lips tightly pursed in concentration as she summons her magic. Jaskier eyes slip shut and his knuckles tighten on the table he sits on.

It’s only them in the room. Jaskier had insisted Ciri not be there in case something went wrong. Geralt hasn’t felt this tense in a long time. This might be the last time he sees Jaskier alive.

He doesn’t know how long this will last or how difficult it will be. He crosses his arms to stop his hands from shaking at the fear that Jaskier will drop dead the second the curse is removed.

After several long minutes, Yennefer’s hands retreat and they both open their eyes. Jaskier looks expectant, hopeful, but Yennefer sighs heavily.

“It’s not a reincarnation curse.”

Jaskier looks over at him, for the first time with no hatred just confusion, “But you said…”

“It is,” Geralt insists, “This is his fourth life.”

Yennefer shakes her head, “It isn’t. It’s an immortality curse, one that hasn’t been completed. I don’t know what happened but my best guess is that it’s manifesting in reincarnation; that’s as close as it can get to its purpose.”

Geralt blanches, “Immortality?” He doesn’t know if Dandelion was Jaskier’s first life but if he had been, then maybe he wouldn’t have died all those years ago. Bitterness rises in his chest, then he feels guilty because Dandelion’s death paved way for Buttercup, Julian and Jaskier.

“As best as it can,” Yennefer lifts her hand and summons her magic to examine the curse, “Jaskier, how old are you?”

“Forty.”

“Yet you still look to be in your twenties. I’d say it’s the curses work.”

Jaskier huffs a smile, “Yennefer, you always said I look old, were you lying?” there’s a teasing smile on his face and Yennefer playfully glares at him. Geralt wishes he could have that back, he’d give anything for Jaskier to smile at him again.

Then she turns to him, “How old was he when he died before?”

“Which time?” Geralt digs his fingernails into his palm, still not comfortable talking about the loss.

“You said I died of old age, once,” Jaskier pipes up.

Geralt nods and starts hesitantly, “You did. You were ninety-six. You chose to take poison rather than wait to die of old age, the years ahead of you wouldn’t have been easy.” He can still vividly remember that beach in Kovir, the feeling of Julian weak but alive in his arms and the waves crashing as he slipped away.

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up, “Ninety-six?”

Even Yennefer seems surprised.

“What?”

“How old do you think the average human life span is, Geralt?” Yennefer asks with a hint of amusement.

“Hundred years or so.”

Jaskier barks a laugh, “More like seventy years.”

Yennefer nods, “Even nobles with the finest living standards rarely make it beyond eighty. You’re saying Jaskier made it to ninety-six and still had years of life left in him.”

“Yes.”

They fall silent and Geralt is suddenly thankful he had so much time with Julian. He had never thought it was enough but to think he might have lost him two decades before he did is a frightening thought.

“What does that mean, then? If it’s not a reincarnation curse?” Jaskier asks, voice quiet. Geralt wants nothing more than to go over and comfort him, but it’s not his place.

“I can’t remove it,” Yennefer pauses. “I could complete it. It’s a bastardised version of what mages go through when they ascend. All the essence and none of the finesse.”

“Is it safe?” Geralt can’t help but feel eager at the thought of Jaskier being immortal. It was why he had chosen Yennefer over him with the djinn. If he was immortal then he wouldn’t die or suffer from Geralt’s inadequacy. He wouldn't die at all.

“I don’t know. The caster must have been powerful for the curse to hold like this with no direction. Although, curses require less skill than spells,” Yennefer muses.

Jaskier fiddles with his fingers, rubbing them together anxiously, “I, uh, I’m not sure if I want to be immortal.”

Geralt feels a pit in his stomach. “Why not?”

“Living forever?” Jaskier shrugs self-consciously, “Forever’s a long time.”

“You won’t be alone,” Geralt promises.

Jaskier holds his gaze for a long time then nods shakily, “Okay. Can you remove it after, if I wanted?”

Yennefer frowns, “I’m not sure. The spell can’t be undone, but this would still be a curse. It might be possible, but I make no promises.”

Jaskier swallows and Geralt can hear his heart beating loud and fast. “Alright. Okay. Complete it.”

Yennefer hesitates, “Are you sure? You can have time to think.”

“No. Do it.”

Geralt is even tenser when Yennefer raises her hands again. The magic in the room swells and Yennefer whispers incantations under her breath. Jaskier’s body is taught and it takes everything he has not to walk forward.

Jaskier grunts in pain and Geralt jolts forward, he stops a few steps away. Yennefer is still poised in perfect concentration but Jaskier starts to flinch more and more. The scent of her magic fills the room and Geralt can’t look away from Jaskier.

If it works it means he won’t die. He’ll live a life as long as Geralt’s. They’ll have all the time in the world to make things right. Geralt can fix it. He can tell Jaskier about what they did in their past lives, and if he’ll let him, start a new one.

Yennefer’s incantations get louder and her face scrunches with force. Then Jaskier’s hands fly to his head and he falls to the ground screaming.

“Jaskier,” Geralt yells, going to the floor next to him. Jaskier’s body convulses and he screams louder. Yennefer stands above them still completing the curse. “Stop, he’ll die!”

She doesn’t listen. Jaskier’s screams are loud enough to hurt. Geralt tries to hold him in place but Jaskier only thrashes and tears stream down his eyes. “Jaskier, Jaskier.”

The screaming stops when Yennefer finishes and the room falls silent. Jaskier slumps on the floor and Geralt quickly gathers him in his arms. His heartbeat is faint but there.

Geralt scoops him up into his arms, careful not to hurt him anymore. “Will he be okay?” his voice wobbles.

“I don’t know,” Yennefer swallows, following after him as he carries Jaskier to his room.

He lays him on the bed and arranges the pillows and blankets so he’s comfortable. He looks weak and pale on the bed. Geralt has no idea what it means now that the curse is complete, he just hopes that Jaskier will wake up.

* * *

He waits at Jaskier’s bedside for hours. Ciri comes by to sit with him and Geralt can see the fear in her eyes at his unresponsive form. It’s the same fear he feels.

“Will he be okay?”

“I hope so.”

She stays until it gets late then he ushers her to bed, assures that they’re only a room away and goes back to silence. He takes Jaskier’s hand in his own, squeezes and dares to thread their fingers together. “Please wake up,” he whispers.

Another hour passes before Jaskier twitches. Geralt drops his hand as Jaskier blinks awake. He looks blearily around the room and his eyes land on him, “Geralt?”

“I’m here,” Geralt is quick to respond, ready to do anything Jaskier wants him to.

Jaskier pushes himself up, he groans and rubs his head, “I, uh, did it work?”

Geralt nods, “I think so. You’re immortal now.”

Jaskier looks at him and looks away, he can’t maintain eye contact. “Right. Yeah. I think I remember. Everything.”

“Everything?” Geralt’s heart begins to race and his stomach turns, he isn’t sure if this is a good thing or not.

“Everything,” Jaskier confirms, still not looking at him. “I remember the estate, the one you took us by. It's mine, isn't it? I remember dying. I remember the war and the cottage in Kovir.”

Stupidly, his hopes rise. If Jaskier remembers then for the first time, Geralt actually has his past loves back. They all live on in him, now, their memories. If Jaskier remembers then maybe there’s hope that one day they might be able to rekindle what they lost.

“Jaskier-”

“I almost met you once. I just missed you. At Blaviken.”

Geralt freezes. This has to be some kind of joke. “What?” he chokes.

Jaskier finally looks at him, eyes full of sadness and betrayal. “I was someone else. Daffodil. I knew Renfri, we grew up together,” he looks away again.

Blaviken and Renfri. He had been so close to him when he had thought Julian would never come back. He wonders if he would still have become the Butcher if he’d met Daffodil. He wonders what it meant for their being each other’s destinies; it was Renfri who had told him that, and yet it was Jaskier’s life with her that he didn’t meet.

He does a metal tally and works out that Daffodil mustn’t have lived much longer than Renfri because Jaskier was born soon after. “What happened?”

“I only went into the town once. I waited in the forest. Got killed by bandits,” Jaskier responds tightly.

Bandits. And just like that, Geralt is in the forest outside of Blaviken with the scent of blood and chamomile on the air. Choosing to stay at camp and ignore the screams. That was him. Fuck, it had been him.

Even when he hadn’t met Jaskier he still caused his death.

“Jaskier, I-”

“Can you leave?” Jaskier cuts him off, voice strained and pointedly not looking at him.

“Jaskier-”

“Go.”

Reluctantly, Geralt gets up and leaves. He looks back at the door, Jaskier curls up into himself and pulls the sheets high over himself. Geralt forces himself to close the door and walk away.

He falls back against the wall outside and sinks to the floor. Jaskier remembers. He remembers everything; he knows how much Geralt has let him down, time after time.

Geralt can’t even get keeping out of his life right.

* * *

The next day, Jaskier doesn’t join them for breakfast. “Is he alright?” Eskel asks, and the others parrot his concerns.

Geralt takes his seat, “He’s alive. He remembers the past.”

Lambert perks up, “That’s good,” at Geralt’s glare he shrinks back a little, “Isn’t it?”

“He seemed angry.”

Yennefer snorts, “No wonder, he just got two hundred years of memories with no warning. He’ll come around.”

Geralt very much doubts that. At least not to him. Breakfast is quiet without him. He keeps an ear out but doesn’t hear Jaskier move from his room all day.

After midday, he hears the creak of his door and Jaskier’s footsteps going down to the kitchen. Geralt follows after him. When he gets there, Jaskier is making up a plate of leftovers.

“Jaskier.”

The bard nearly drops his plate, then sends a glare at him, “I don’t want to see you right now, Geralt.”

“I know, I just wanted to talk.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Jaskier snorts.

“I’m sorry, for everything.”

Jaskier laughs but it’s bitter, “Uh-huh. I’m sure you are.”

Geralt grunts in frustration, he really is. He’s spent his whole life being sorry and never being able to say it. “I am.”

Jaskier just moves past him, plate in hand, “Just leave me alone, Geralt.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls after him but Jaskier doesn’t look back.

* * *

He’s useless.

Geralt puts on his armour because he knows that monster hunting is the only thing he’s ever been good at. It’s what he was created for, after all. He’s no good at protecting people; he’s only ever had Jaskier to look after and failed miserably, now he has Ciri, and he knows he’ll mess that up too. He’s no good at keeping friendships, Yennefer treats him as a colleague. He’s no good at being a brother, Lambert and Eskel no doubt showing him kindness out of shared hardship.

No matter how hard he tries, no matter dong what he thinks is right, it never is. He doesn’t even know what the right thing is. He half wishes he was still a child when someone would tell him what to do.

He throws his swords over his shoulder and makes his way out to the stables. “Where are you going?” Ciri asks, when runs into her before he can slip outside.

“On a hunt. I’ll be back by tomorrow.”

Ciri looks aghast, “It’s not safe. You can’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt drops a quick kiss to the top of her head before bracing the weather outside.

The cold is still biting but the peak of winter has passed. Roach whinnies when she sees him enter the stables and he takes a moment to rest his forehead against her neck.

“Hey, Roach,” his voice is thick and he takes a calming breath. He checks to make sure his potions are in stock and mounts her.

They ride out of Kaer Morhen and further up the mountain. The snows aren’t melted yet but there’s been no more snowfall in a few days. The path is clear and Geralt lets himself relax into the familiar motions of a hunt.

He doesn’t know what he’ll find but there’s plenty of monsters on this mountain. This is what he was made to do.

Here he can forget about his mistakes. He can unburden his loved ones from having to deal with him.

It’s already going dark when he leaves Roach at a safe distance from the river and starts looking for drowners. He can smell their scent on the breeze so they must be close. He downs a potion and stalks along the river.

The water is frozen around the outsides but gushing in the middles, huge chunks of ice being carried downstream. His pupils widen until his eyes turn back and his vision enhances further. Geralt tracks every slight movement he sees until he finally comes across a drowner.

With a fast slice of his sword, he kills the first. A few more climb from the water and he throws himself into the fight. He tells himself not to think about anything but the fight.

Don’t think about Dandelion dying. He stabs his sword through the chest of a drowner. Don’t think about not being able to save Buttercup. He beheads another. Don’t think about Julian and how much he misses him. He severs an arm. Don’t think about Daffodil, never knowing him, never getting to love him, and never saving him. He brings his sword down, splitting a drowner head in two.

Don’t think about Jaskier, about doing wrong by him for twenty years. Don’t think about Jaskier, loving him so much he can barely stand it. Don’t think about not being loved back and how he deserves it.

The drowners don’t stop coming. Geralt realises that it’s a nest, not just a few. He doubles his efforts but they start to surround him. He can’t move fast enough and one of them rakes down his arm.

Another trips him and he falls backwards into the river. Icy cold surrounds him and he fights his natural instinct to gasp for air. Now underwater, they move faster. Slippy rotten hands slide over him dragging him deeper.

He cuts with his sword, but either the cold or the water is slowing his body. He kicks out and struggles, barely keeping a grip on his sword as he does everything to shake the bodies from him. A boulder of ice slams into him and dislodges the drowner dragging him down.

Geralt kicks out, swimming to the surface. He breaks the water and sucks in a breath. He needs to be fast. He scrambles to the riverbank.

A drowner leaps onto his back. Geralt flips round and puts his weight onto the drowner under him. Another jumps at him, clawing down his chest and stomach. Then another.

Within seconds they manage to break through his armour and he feels them pierce the skin of his stomach. He groans in pain. He curls his fist around his sword and brings the hilt down onto the head of a drowner trying to bite at his insides.

Blood soaks through his already wet clothes, warm and clinging to his skin.

He staggers to his feet, swinging his sword wildly. He’s driven by primal instinct to survive. He thinks of Jaskier. He needs to make it back to him. He needs to make it right.

It feels like hours before the drowners all lay dead at his feet. He puts a hand to his stomach and it comes back covered in thick blood.

“Fuck,” he mutters, trekking back to where he left Roach. He clambers into the saddle, each move dragging pain from his stomach and chest. “Let’s go home.”

The good girl that she is, she takes him back the way they came. His vision is going black and he can’t stay upright. Each movement sends a fresh wave of pain through him and he hunches forward, keeping one hand on the reigns and the other over his stomach to staunch the blood flow as best he can.

Kaer Morhen is within sight, the gates are still open and Roach trots through into the courtyard. Geralt can’t take the pain anymore. His eyes slip shut and he feels his body slip off the saddle and hit the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who's been reviewing, let me know what you thought of this or come find me on tumblr @pansexualbuchanan! <3


	22. a long time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, life's been a little busy! now time for jaskier's pov and all the hurt and messyness he's currently going through! hope you enjoy <3

Jaskier slams the door of the library behind him. Reincarnation. His whole life a lie. He can’t even grasp what it truly means, all he knows is that Geralt has lied to him. Has lied for him for twenty years. Even if the man hated him it was common decency to tell him something like that.

He blindly walks back to the kitchen, rage and confusion burning within him. Yennefer is sat at the table still and looks at him warily when he enters.

“He told you, then?”

He clenches his jaw and nods, unable to speak right now. He can’t form any kind of coherent thought against the wave of emotions lighting his body. He wants to run and scream and fight to get rid of the swelling of anguish and betrayal in his chest and stomach.

Silently, Yennefer pushes a drink towards him and he throws it back in one gulp. He doesn’t want to get drunk again but the burn of alcohol down his throat soothes his temper a little.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m not mad at you,” he waves off. She’d been the one to tell him in the first place, even if it was a slip-up. Geralt should have told him a long time ago. Yes, other people were complicit in the deception but the root of that is Geralt. He slumps into a chair and wipes a hand down his face, “Cursed. What a way to end the night.”

Yennefer regards him and if it weren’t for the lack of tickle in his head he’d think she was trying to read his mind. “I thought you’d like the idea. Living forever, bearing witness to the changing of the Continent, all that poetry stuff,” she drawls, “Figured you’d make a song about it.”

Jaskier laughs bitterly, “You’re not wrong,” he muses. If he heard about the curse he’d be filled with inspiration for a great many ballads. The reality of finding out that he was already doomed to such a fate was less than inspiring. “Not quite as glamourous when it’s reality, though.”

Yennefer sighs heavily, “Don’t I know it,” she mutters under her breath. “How much did he tell you?”

“Just what the curse is, that he’s met me before and that six people knew about it,” he rubs at his eyes, suddenly exhausted as he tries to accept the news. His whole world view and sense of self utterly shifted within the span of less than an hour. “I’m guessing he told you all about it?” Jaskier tries not to let the bitterness seep into his voice, he knows whatever relationship they had was over but that didn’t change the fact that Rinde was when Geralt started treating him worse and worse.

She shakes her head, “Not really. He didn’t tell me anything about you, or rather who you were. From what I guessed you were important to him.”

He scoffs, “Sure.”

“Why else would he be so guarded about it?” she challenges.

“Might make the world implode?” he offers, “Or that’s just how he is. Keeping secrets and not saying much.”

She smiles wryly, “You’re right, but so am I.”

Jaskier shakes his head dejectedly, “I couldn’t have been important to him, Yen.” If he had been important to Geralt before then he would be important to him now.

“You were, I’m sure of it. I didn’t need to read his mind to know you’re important to him now, too.”

At that, he barks a laugh. “You’re drunker than you think you are.”

Yennefer looks unimpressed but doesn’t press anymore. “If you want I can take a look at the curse, work out the specifics. Geralt wasn’t there when you got cursed so we don’t know what it entails.”

He rubs his fingers together anxiously, for a moment he had forgotten that he was cursed. “Can you remove it?”

She pauses, “Probably. Are you sure?”

Jaskier meets her eyes, the confusion he’s felt since the revelation washing away in favour of hard determination. “I’m sure. If I’m going to die, I want to stay dead.”

“The curse might be keeping you alive. You might die.” Her voice stays casual but he spots the tightening of her fingers around her glass.

He’s never been much afraid of death, he never saw the point when it was something he couldn’t avoid. Would he be ready to die tomorrow? He has Ciri to live for, but she doesn’t need him and she’s safe here. He’s made the beginnings of friendships with the other Witchers and Yennefer but there’s nothing keeping him here. Life would go on without him and it’s not like anyone outside of the keep would even notice.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, “Remove it.”

* * *

Jaskier watches Ciri as she sits on his bed and plays his lute, a frown of concentration pulling at her face as she tries to master the little riff he had shown her. It is late but she had woken from a nightmare and couldn’t get back to sleep; he was more than happy to keep her company when she came knocking at his door.

There is a very real prospect that he might die tomorrow. Ciri would be the only one to miss him, and probably not for long; she is still young, within a few years he would be a distant memory, a childhood tale, in the face of the family and skills she would cultivate here at Kaer Morhen.

He can only hope that she will continue to play and learn music so that he might live on in some small way. “Will you look after it?” he asks quietly.

Ciri looks up at him and hums questioningly, fingers still pressing down strings on the fret.

“My lute,” he clarifies, “Will you look after it?”

She looks at the instrument and back to him, “What do you mean?”

“I’m cursed,” he begins and her eyes go wide.

“What?” she abandons the lute to the side, “Are you alright? What curse?”

He doesn’t know if he’s alright, to be perfectly honest, he doesn’t know if he ever has been. “Apparently, it’s a reincarnation curse. I lived lives before this one. I don’t remember them. Yennefer is going to remove it tomorrow.”

Ciri tilts her head to the side and she looks so much like Geralt that Jaskier has to look away for a moment. “Why are you removing it?”

“It’s a curse, it’s not how I’m meant to live.”

“But it means you’ll come back,” Ciri implores, voice near frantic and he suddenly understands that she means if he dies then she won’t have to lose him permanently like she has with the rest of their family.

Jaskier nods, “I would, but I wouldn’t remember anything. Not a past life, not you. And I’d be a baby again, somewhere.”

“I’d look after you,” Ciri says confidently, “And then when you’re older I’d tell you.”

He smiles sadly, no doubt in his mind that she would. He doesn’t want to face that possibility, living without remembering again. Not knowing the truth that his existence is reliant on a curse placed on a version of him lost to time.

“I know you would, dear heart, but I don’t want that. I don’t want endless lives and never knowing the difference.” A silence settles over them and Jaskier hasn’t even broken the worst news yet. “We don’t know if the curse is keeping me alive at this point.”

Ciri stills, “Jas, what do you mean?”

“I might not survive without it.”

Tears well up in her eyes properly, “What? No, you can’t.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” she glares.

“I want to. I don’t want to live cursed.”

She stands from the bed but he remains sitting so they are at eye level. “But- but,” she flounders, trying to find an argument. “But I need you,” she settles on.

Jaskier reaches out and takes her hands in his, “You have everything you need here already.”

Ciri shakes her head, “Not if you’re not here.”

She looks so young that it breaks his heart. He knows it’s hard for her but he knows she’s stronger than he could ever hope to be and she’ll be okay, with or without him. “It’s just a possibility.”

“You better not die,” she warns.

“I’ll try my best,” he promises. “As long as you promise to look after my lute, whether I die tomorrow or in years to come. You’re the only one I trust it with.”

She nods and wipes at her eyes, “Okay,” she agrees. She sits next to him again. “So, you’ve lived before?”

“Apparently so.”

“What did you do?”

He pauses, “I don’t know. Geralt just told me he met me before. I’ve got no clue who I was.”

“Why don’t you ask him,” she suggests simply.

Jaskier almost laughs at the suggestion that Geralt would tell him anything. He’d kept the very existence of the curse to himself, the actual lives he once lead would be even harder to get out of him. He steers the conversation back to Ciri’s lute playing and she practices the riff again. After a while she has it and eventually leaves for bed, giving him a tight hug before she goes.

As usual, he puts off sleep so as not to face any nightmares. He can’t stop thinking about the curse. Now that the initial shock and anger has worn off he’s filled with questions about himself. What was he like? Has he always played music? What was his name? His life story?

It eats away at him until he gathers his courage and crosses down the hall to Geralt’s room. Despite the late hour, he can see candlelight from under the door. He considers going back – he doesn’t want to bother Geralt. He’s still angry he never told him but he can put that aside for curiosity.

Hesitantly, he knocks and Geralt calls out to come in. “Hi,” he greets meekly and Geralt motions to the bed to sit down.

Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed and his words leave him. He looks around the room and notices little trinkets and books and things he never thought Geralt would bother with. “You knew me? Before?” he asks tentatively, anticipating being asked to leave again.

“I did.”

“Can you tell me about me?” A question he never thought he’d be asking. He half expects Geralt to tell him just how much he’s always been a burden, or maybe they only met in passing and that’s why he’s so hated now to be saddles with his constant presence.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything, he thinks. He wants to know everything about himself, his past lives are a stranger to him. “I’m not sure. How well did you know me?”

“Pretty well.”

So, they were friends in a past life. Or at least associates in some kind of way. Had he been his barker back then, too? Although he’d never heard any songs about Geralt before, so perhaps not. Jaskier wonders what went wrong, or maybe they’d been sworn enemies in the past. He can’t ask that, though. He doesn’t know where the line is so he doesn’t cross it. Geralt mustn’t have told him for a reason. What if he was a horrible person in a past life? No morals and a hater of Witchers. “Am I the same as I used to be?”

Geralt says he is and that assuages some of that particular worry. It also begs more questions because if he is the same as he’s always been then had Geralt always hated him? Or was it whatever difference he presented this time enough to ruin their friendship, and what was it?

Instead, he asks about what he was called. Small, inconsequential details seemed like safer territory. If he lives past tomorrow he might be able to get more details out of it, and if he dies then there’s no point.

Dandelion. Buttercup. Julian. Names that belong to him and yet feel so distant. Briefly, he remembers Borch calling him Julian on that mountain and it clicks that the dragon knew and never told him.

He pushes on and asks how he died. A monster, so he had travelled with Geralt before or had they only met for a contract wherever he lived and he got caught in the crossfire? And then the plague.

“The plague?” he has to stop Geralt, very clearly remembering the start of the banquet in Cintra. Mousesack had known, had known _him_. Geralt confirms and he exhales, “That fucker,” he mutters. He can’t bring himself to be angry about that, not when his friend is now dead.

Old age for Julian, that sounded nice at the very least. There’s so much more he wants to ask but he’s aware he’s bothering Geralt and doesn’t want to give him any more reason to hate him. He moves the conversation away from him and to Ciri, the only common ground they have right now.

“Can I be there? When you do it?” Geralt asks, sounding hesitant and unsure.

Jaskier doesn’t understand why Geralt would want to be. Maybe he wants to finally see the curse removed to be confident Jaskier won’t be a bother again. But the hunch of Geralt’s shoulders and his quiet voice tells Jaskier that isn’t true. If it is true that they knew each other ‘pretty well’ and he might die then maybe Geralt wants to be there as a last farewell to his once friend. Jaskier lets himself believe that a small part of that might be reserved for him. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

They meet in the afternoon in Yennefer’s laboratory. Ciri had asked to come but Jaskier didn’t want her to see in case it did go wrong. He sits on a table, Yennefer in front of him and Geralt watching from across the room.

Yennefer summons her magic and he feels the tingle of it penetrating his mind. It goes deeper than he’s used to and he squeezes the ledge of the table. She moves deeper and deeper and it feels like whatever that mage had done after the mountain.

Finally, she lowers her hand and his mind tickles from the inside but the discomfort fades. “It’s not a reincarnation curse.”

He looks at Geralt, the only one who can give him answers. “But you said..”

“It is. This is his fourth life.”

And then Yennefer tells them it’s an immortality curse gone wrong.

_Immortality._ The word echoes over and over in his mind as Yennefer and Geralt try to work out what’s wrong with him. He inputs as necessary but suddenly everything is changing again.

Living forever is a concept he can’t even wrap his head around. His whole life he had the knowledge that life would undoubtedly end. That at some point it would all come to a close. Had he been younger he might have fancied the idea more, who didn’t want to live forever? But forever is a long time, and what purpose does living have if it’s endless.

Apparently, he’s already having a longer life than expected. His youthful appearance down to the curse as opposed to the exorbitant amount of moisturiser and skin products he had bought over the years for his career. And living until ninety-six in his last life. That’s his current life twice over and then some.

“What does that mean, then? If it’s not a reincarnation curse?” he swallows. He’d had all day to come to terms with past lives, stopping that in its tracks and possibly dying. Now it’s an entirely new issue.

“I can’t remove it. I could complete it.”

Jaskier fills with dread at that. His options presented before him: be reborn again and again, with no memory of himself, or face an endless life.

Geralt and Yennefer keep talking about completing the curse and somehow reincarnation seems the less scary option. It’s worked so far. “I, uh, I’m not sure if I want to be immortal,” he speaks up and instantly feels like he’s said something he shouldn’t by the way they look at him.

“Why not?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier doesn’t know why he wants him to be immortal when he can’t even call him a friend.

“Living forever? Forever’s a long time.”

“You won’t be alone,” Geralt says with so much assurity that it stuns him.

Everyone at Kaer Morhen, barring himself and Ciri, is practically immortal in some way. As long as nothing kills them they will be there. Living forever doesn’t seem like such a chore if it’s a life shared. Maybe being immortal will finally mean he’s accepted.

It still scares him. Yennefer has her own life and a Witcher can still be killed. He might still be left alone. Geralt is still holding his gaze, a half desperate look in his eyes and Jaskier thinks he might understand, just a little bit, as to why he never cared for his presence. A mortal was a burden, a blip, but an immortal could be a friend.

“Okay,” he agrees. At the very least, Ciri will be happy. His gut still swirls with nerves, “Can you remove it after, if I wanted?”

Yennefer tells him it might be possible but only a slim chance. She offers him more time to think but he knows if he does he will just be tormented by indecision.

He won’t be alone. He won’t be alone.

“No. Do it.”

Yennefer raises her hand again and he feels his skin start to tingle with her magic. She begins to chant and his eyes slip shut as the tingle feeling suddenly goes deeper. Much deeper than he’s ever felt before.

He feels her magic dig inside and suddenly pull. _He’s in a forest, surrounded by men he doesn’t know – yes, he does. He looks over and sees Renfri. Daffodil was never some ghost haunting him, it was him._

Jaskier grunts in pain as the magic moves throughout his head. Pulling and pushing him in different directions. _He’s facing a tall blonde man, the one from his nightmare who beats him. It’s not some nightmare anymore. It’s Cedric, his father._

The magic is relentless. Images, memories, whipping past his eyes faster than he can hold onto them. Each of them pulled to the forefront for a brief moment and then shoved back into their rightful place.

He can’t hear anything anymore. He can’t feel the table under his hands and distantly recognises that his body has fallen to the floor. _He’s on the floor, sleeping amidst his family in a tiny cottage. His feet are bare and his clothes have been darned together more times than he can count._

Jaskier feels like his head is going to explode. It’s too much. There’s an extra thirty, hundred, two hundred years now fighting for space inside him.

“Jaskier? Jaskier?”

It’s Geralt but his voice is drowned out against the noise in his brain.

Geralt. Geralt. Geralt.

Unwillingly, his brain brings up memories he’s never had before. Geralt smiling and laughing at him. Geralt kissing him. Geralt holding him tight.

All those strange occurrences in his dreams were real. Had been real. _Geralt is holding him from behind, reading him poetry. Geralt is holding out his hand and leading him to the dance floor. Geralt is sparring with him, then kissing him._

He wants to be sick.

_If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands._

Jaskier wants to cry. He might be crying.

It was one thing to not understand why Geralt had been so needlessly cruel when all he had given him was friendship. It is another to not understand why, when they had loved each other across centuries. It’s too much. Too much.

The noise in his mind is deafening. There are too many memories, each fighting to be seen and heard at the same time. They overlap. Jaskier can barely grasp onto what they mean.

Over and over he hears Geralt’s voice, clear as day and louder than any of the other voices from his memories. There are no coherent sentences. Snippets of long lost jokes. Sweet nothings. A call of his name.

His name. Gods, what’s his name?

He can’t answer that question. The pain and the noise and the memories all become too much and he falls into a blissful darkness.

* * *

_Jaskier blinks awake. His mind is clear of the fog and the noise and he breathes. He’s not in Kaer Morhen anymore._

_His legs take him running down a winding path away from the village. They take him home. He runs to his mother and she smiles at him. He’s been here before, seen it happen; now he knows what this is. “She cursed me,” he babbles, crying. He doesn’t want to let go. He knows he doesn’t have long left with her._

_Jaskier doesn’t know how long he spends there, as Dandelion. It might be minutes or it might be years. He watches, no, relives, himself grow old. Watches his mother grow ill. Remembers what he had thought back then when life was new to him._

_He lets himself be taken by Igor. As he goes he recognises snippets of nightmares he’s had before. He’s no longer made uncomfortable by them. He knows why his body moves and talks the way it does. Even when he sees himself lose his lease for life and force himself into a copy of his uncle, at long last he feels content._

_Memories robbed from him finally returned._

_Jaskier is riding in the snow and he knows what comes next. When he sees Geralt huddled by a blown-out campfire his breath catches in his throat. It feels like this is his first time seeing him. It is, in a sense._

_As the years fly by, the memories of him and Geralt all slot into place. Falling in love and being loved. Jaskier wonders how it could have ever been any different between them._

_And then he’s in the grips of a monster. Geralt fighting desperately on the ground below him. His body breaking and tumbling to the ground. Geralt holding him as he dies._

_The darkness is only brief. Jaskier isn’t sure if this is a memory of a moment spent in the afterlife. He wakes a young boy again. He lives it all again._

_He can’t read. Even if he knows how he can’t make sense of the letters he sees. Geralt is there again. Did he know? Jaskier floats as his mind sorts through his past meticulously filing away each one it is given._

_It’s Mousesack. Jaskier forces himself to hold onto this as he watches his friend treat him. It feels so real. It’s hard to acknowledge the fact that the man in front of him is dead now._

_Then he’s dead. Again._

_And alive. Again._

_He’s young and a prince and his family don’t love him. That’s something Jaskier is familiar with in his current life, too. Geralt comes to his rescue once more and sweeps him away from court life._

_Jaskier sees himself go to war. Sees the elves faces he cut down, guilt he’s never felt before rising up in him. He sees Griffin - ah, that’s who he’s seen in his nightmares - clutch his sword and it swipes through his side. The burn and pain is overwhelming. And then there’s Aga and Filavandrel and the other elves as he slowly comes back to health. He’s never seen this in his nightmares. Not properly._

_He misses them. He hopes they’re all still okay and alive._

_He’s old and he has a cottage by the coast. He’s with Geralt. Geralt who has loved him and loved him with unwavering dedication for three lifetime._

_The sand is coarse under his fingers and Jaskier doesn’t want to let go of this because he knows what comes next. He knows this is the last time that Geralt will hold him, kiss him, and love him._

_It goes too quick. And then he’s Daffodil again. Renfri had always been something he thought of in regards to Geralt. He had known there must be more to the story, a tragedy he could only hope to one day uncover. Now he knows the truth, knows who Renfri was, how good she was, really. He sees her become absorbed by her need for revenge._

_The ring on his finger, his ring and he can’t even begin to express how grateful he is he found it again, had been from her. She leaves him in the forest; he had died not knowing what happened to her, now he knows. He wishes he could tell her not to go. To renounce her revenge. But he can’t change the past._

_He sees Geralt ride by. He wonders if he would have loved him as Daffodil if he had gone with Renfri to Blaviken and met him._

_Then he’s him again. He’s Jaskier and these memories feel even more real than the ones of who he had been. Geralt is back and all he does is push him away. There are some moments where he treats him as a friend, Jaskier hadn’t been wrong that they had been almost close at the start. It’s soon drowned out by how much effort Geralt puts into keeping him at arm's length._

_If life could give me one blessing._

_The last year of his life catches up within the blink of an eye. He’s left in the darkness._

* * *

Jaskier wakes up, properly this time. There are soft sheets and a draft and an old dusty smell. He’s in his room at Kaer Morhen. His vision is blurry and his body is heavy but he notices Geralt sat in a chair by his bed.

He doesn’t know how he got here from Yennefer’s laboratory. “Geralt?” his voice scratches when he speaks and he distantly remembers screaming himself hoarse before he passed out.

“I’m here.”

Jaskier sits up and his head throbs with pain. It’s not as bad as it had been and there’s no memories forcing themselves to the surface this time. “I, uh, did it work?”

“I think so. You’re immortal now.”

He glances at Geralt but finds he can’t look at him. Not now he realises how much Geralt must hate him. He doesn’t know why but it must be something wrong with him if Geralt had been so willing to show him love in the past.

“Right. Yeah. I think I remember. Everything.” Jaskier needs him to know that he remembers. Not in some desperate attempt to win his affections or guilt him into giving him that love again, just because he won't be a hypocrite and keep secrets.

“Everything?” he hears the hesitation in his voice. He must be disgusted that Jaskier has a hold of memories Geralt holds dear. At least, Jaskier hopes that Geralt still loves and misses who he used to be.

Jaskier confirms, giving a few snippets of their old life as proof. His mind races with questions as to why Geralt didn’t fall for him this time. He wasn’t so different. Sure, he was a bit bolder and louder but he was still _him_.

And because he wants Geralt to hurt, just a little bit, he says, “I almost met you once. I just missed you. At Blaviken.”

He immediately regrets using it as a weapon, Geralt freezes and Jaskier knows how much Blaviken has haunted him. Not the title of Butcher, for he didn’t need Geralt to tell him he thought the title fit, but what he did to Renfri.

“I was someone else. Daffodil. I knew Renfri, we grew up together,” he explains and looks away because he can’t stand to look at the hurt plastered on Geralt’s face.

Jaskier recalls Renfri telling him his destiny was in Blaviken, catching sight of Geralt riding into town. It was Geralt who was his destiny, how else would they have run into each other time after time? He wonders if she told Geralt the same as she told him. He wonders if that’s why Geralt hates him so much – destiny. Melitele knows how much the Witcher hates destiny, rages against the very concept. He had spent years running away from Ciri because of it and that was something he had invoked himself; Jaskier wasn’t a choice.

Geralt asks what happened and Jaskier tells him how he died. He fiddles with his ring and questions why he hadn’t met Geralt at Blaviken. If they were each others destiny then he should have met him regardless. Except, Renfri had begged him to come to town where he surely would have met him. He had fought against destiny for fear of the town. It meant it was possible to avoid each other if they wanted. It’s clearly what Geralt wants, has always wanted, and him sitting by his bedside out of guilt is only hurting them both.

“Jaskier, I-”

“Can you leave?” he asks, because he won’t fool himself into thinking Geralt cares. Geralt hasn’t cared since he was Julian. His head is swimming with memories, predominantly of what he used to have with Geralt and he can’t let himself drown in them.

“Jaskier-”

“Go.”

Jaskier pulls the covers over his head until he is shrouded in darkness and he hears the door close behind Geralt. He can’t stop the tears from erupting the second he hears the click of the door as it all pours out of him.

All the people he had known, dead. He grieves over people he had never even heard of yesterday. He cries for each memory of death. And he cries for all the burning love, the likes of which he had only ever hoped for, that he is no longer worthy of.

He doesn’t sleep. He sorts through his memories trying to figure out where he fits now. His memories all fight for prominence in his mind and he battles a blinding headache.

Dawn comes and he finally passes out from exhaustion, no closer to understanding himself than he had only a few hours before. He sleeps dreamlessly, no nightmares, no memories. He wakes briefly when he hears everyone convening for breakfast but he can’t face them.

Jaskier drifts to sleep and wakes at about midday. His head is still heavy as if it’s physically weighed down by the onslaught of memories. He finds his journal and flips through the pages of his hastily sketched dreams.

Looking back it’s laughable that he never pieced it together sooner.

He starts on a fresh page and begins to carefully note down as much as he can. Starting with Dandelion and moving on and on until he reaches last night. He’s filled several pages with his scrawl and releases a breath at being able to see it all written out. A human brain isn’t made to withstand so many memories.

His stomach clenches painfully and he reluctantly leaves his room to get some food. The keep is quiet as he plods down to the kitchen and hastily assembles a plate of leftovers.

“Jaskier,” Geralt is in the doorway and Jaskier frights at his appearance.

“I don’t want to see you right now, Geralt,” he speaks plainly. He can’t look at him. Not when he hurts from the practical slap in the face at realising he once loved him and now treats him like a nuisance. Not when memories, fresh and new, tell him he loves him.

“I know, I just wanted to talk.”

Oh, sweet irony. When all Jaskier wanted was for him to talk he wouldn’t and now he wants his peace he wants to talk. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“I’m sorry, for everything.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure you are.” An apology had been all he wanted a week ago, now it hangs limply in the air and is nowhere near good enough to even start repairing what is broken. Geralt is only saying sorry now because it’s unavoidable. If he meant it, he would have said it sooner.

“I am.”

“Just leave me alone, Geralt.”

Geralt calls for him as he leaves but Jaskier doesn’t turn around. He takes his plate to his room to eat. There’s only one way to get the mess of his emotions out of his head. Jaskier picks up his lute and strums a few chords, the words come to him easily. His bitterness and wistful melancholy twisting into words without even needing to think about it.

_Without out you, I’m stronger_

_I’m no longer_

_Filled with wonder_

_How wrong you were_

_For you, my lungs_

_Were pulled asunder_

_Saw that wild blue yonder_

_And said such endless blue_

_I surrender what was,_

_What could have been_

_All those wonders_

_Sit in wait for us, we tried_

_Try please try for me_

_Come rest for the winter_

_Wear my jumper all night long_

_Those songs we sung_

_Those words we flung_

_For fear of sound_

_I’m lost_

_In you_

He finishes the song and the anger inside him is somewhat abated, even if the muddle in his mind isn’t.

* * *

Jaskier blindly walks to the kitchen. His head is so loud. The more he thinks the more the memories blend together. There’s no clear distinction as to where his memories stop and end. It feels like they’re all merging and he’s been aware of every year of life. It also feels distant, his memories of Dandelion foggy like trying to remember the early years of childhood, growing more cohesive with each life. And yet, if he thinks about a specific thing it feels just as clear as any of his other memories.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore. Is he Julian who he has lived as for nearly a century? Or Dandelion, who he was before any curse or second life? Is he still him? His memories don’t feel like him, they feel like iterations of what he could have been. None of them are Jaskier. All he knows is Jaskier is the last thing he will ever be.

He throws open the pantry door not caring that the slam of the door against the wall is loud enough to wake the whole castle. He spies the bottle of alcohol he had seen Eskel or Vesemir take a small glass of in the evenings sometimes. Jaskier remembers Eskel saying it’s a strong liquor so he grabs the bottle. He doesn’t bother pouring it into a glass and takes a sip straight from the bottle.

The taste is bitter on his tongue. He grimaces at the taste and swallows, enjoying the burn. Anything to distract from the feeling that his head is too full. He takes another sip and another.

His fingers begin to feel numb and the tension in his jaw loosens pleasantly. He takes a seat at the table and continues to drink. He’s had more than he should’ve, he knows – even the Witchers don’t drink this much. But he doesn’t care. He deserves this. Deserves to drink until he can forget again.

Because he doesn’t want these memories.

The goodness makes his pain worse. He has a taste of love and devotion, only to realise he isn’t enough this time. He wishes he could go back to being blissfully unaware.

“Jaskier?” Vesemir is standing in the doorway looking at him like he’s grown three heads.

Jaskier flashes a bright drunken smile, toasts the bottle and takes a long drink from it.

“Stop!” Vesemir snatches the bottle from his hands and the alcohol splashes out over Jaskier’s chin. “How much of this have you drunk?”

“A lot,” Jaskier shrugs then feels guilty for using up what is probably a limited supply. “Sorry.”

Vesemir has a horrified look in his eye. Then he’s dragging Jaskier up from the chair and through the long winding hallways, uncaring of the noise they make. They eventually reach a room with jars and herbs and strange liquids on shelves. Vesemir shoves him onto a table lying in the middle of the room and frantically starts fetching jars.

“Are you going to kill me?” Jaskier slurs.

“No.”

Lambert walks through the door looking groggy at being woken in the early morning hours. “What’s going on?”

“Jaskier drank our alcohol.”

Lambert’s eyes go wide, “Shit.” He moves to Jaskier and starts scanning him over. “How much? How long?”

Jaskier shrugs again. He hadn’t been keeping track. “A lot of it. I don’t know. Half an hour ago? An hour?”

Lambert’s eyebrows furrow. “And you feel fine?”

“Define fine,” Jaskier responds childishly. He feels anything but fine. Hasn’t felt fine since before the mountain.

“Stomach pain? Any type of pain? Loss of vision? Nausea?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, I’m just drunk. Not nearly enough, I was rudely interrupted.”

Lambert goes back over to Vesemir and Jaskier can’t hear them talking. They keep casting him worried glances which he steadfastly ignores. Lambert rushes out of the room and Vesemir finally comes over with his hastily made concoction.

It’s some sort of thick green liquid. Jaskier isn’t sure if it’s moving on his own or just his head spinning as the full effect of the alcohol begins to hit him.

“Drink this.”

Jaskier downs the suspicious potion in one gulp. It tasted of grass and turmeric and salt. “I’m sorry for drinking your alcohol.”

“You will be. It’s not for humans.”

Under Vesemir’s anger is his clear worry which Jaskier doesn’t understand. He’s been drunk plenty of times and worse than this. He hasn’t even thrown up yet or made a fool of himself. “I feel fine, really.”

This makes Vesemir frown even more. And then Lambert has returned with Eskel, Geralt and Yennefer in tow, all looking displeased at being roused from their sleep.

Jaskier wonders bitterly if Geralt and Yennefer had been sharing a bed – content to lie in each other’s arms and keep each other warm. He knows it’s not true, but he’s drunk and nursing a heartbreak he isn’t even sure belongs to him. Maybe it’s everyone he once was grieving the loss of Geralt’s love.

It seems they are already aware of the situation considering Geralt comes straight to his side. Geralt touches his face moving it side to side and opening his eyelids wider. It’s a very frantic inspection and Jaskier realises he hasn’t felt Geralt touch him in months. “How is he still alive?” he asks over his shoulder.

Lambert shrugs and Vesemir says nothing.

“Apologies,” Jaskier mutters under his breath drawing Geralt’s eyes back to him. He thinks he sees a flash of remorse but it must be a trick of the light.

“You should be dead.” Geralt says. “What you drank is only for Witchers. We have a higher tolerance than you. What you drank is poison to you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers. A pit of dread settles in his stomach and sobers him very quickly. “Am I going to die?” he asks the room and no one will meet his eyes.

Yennefer steps forward then. She seems to notice something and then closes her eyes and waves her hand close to his body. “It’s the curse.”

“The curse?” Geralt looks at her. “I thought you broke it?”

“I fixed it,” Yennefer corrects.

Jaskier still doesn’t understand. They ‘fixed’ his curse so he remembers his past lives and is immortal now. But he can still die. Immortality only protects him from old age. Geralt also seems to be just as confused as he is because he has the same questioning look on his face.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s protecting you from things that would kill a regular human, like a Witcher’s mutations. I don’t know to what extent. I’ll have to do some research.”

The tension in the room relaxes at that. Their bard is not leaving this mortal coil tonight.

“The manticore,” Geralt says suddenly. “The poison didn’t kill you, and my potions didn’t either.”

“You gave a human a potion?” Lambert calls over incredulously but goes ignored.

Jaskier still has a nasty scar on his thigh from the sting and the stitches. He remembers the frantic look Geralt had as he patched him up that had been on his face not moments ago. “It was the curse that saved me then?” he shudders at the fact that he would have died had he not been cursed.

“Unless you need to tell us you’re not entirely human?” Eskel speaks up. Jaskier shakes his head.

“Then, yes, it’s the curse,” Yennefer states. “You can’t be killed so easily.”

Relief touches everyone except Jaskier. If anything, he feels even worse. In less than two days everything he has known about his life and himself has completely turned upside down. Three times.

“Right. Good,” he forces a fake smile on his face. “Sorry for, uh, waking you all up. I’ll just go to bed.” He slips off the table and out of the room. His eyes are glued to his feet and he forces himself to walk out of the room at a normal pace because he so desperately wants to run away as far as he can go.

“Jaskier!” He hears Geralt call after him and he ignores it.

When he’s left the room, his feet speed up and he’s sprinting to his room. He wants to go to the coast. Wants to run towards the waves and let the sea consume him. Wants water to fill his lungs and pull him down to the seabed.

He’s crying. Again. His throat burns from it.

There’s warmth next to him. He starts and sees the flash of white hair. For a brief moment he thinks it’s Geralt. But it’s Ciri. Sweet Ciri.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispers softly as she hugs him and he believes her.

Of all the people he has ever known and loved Ciri is the only one who has loved him back and not let go.

He holds onto her tighter until the tears stop flowing from his eyes. The morning light is trickling into the room and Ciri is drifting to sleep in his arms. “Sing me a song?” she whispers sleepily.

Jaskier remembers when she was younger and had asked him the same thing and is struck by how much she’s grown. How much she’s been through since he used to sing at her winter balls in court. How much they’ve both changed.

“Of course,” he clears his throat and sings quietly. His voice soft and cracking on the high notes but he doesn’t have the strength to sing louder. The song is meant to be gentle, anyway, not made to be performed for tavern or court audiences.

Ciri falls asleep and he lets the steady in and outs of her breathing calm the storm inside him. He’s immortal and can’t die easily, that’s simple. It means he finally has some worth, it means he can protect Ciri when she needs him. Even if his memories and sense of self are a scrambled mess at the moment he can power through if it means keeping her safe.

* * *

“Do you miss anything? About your old life?” Ciri asks, when she comes back to his room that night

“Hmm, I suppose. I miss Salmon,” he still regrets having to sell his horse. He hopes that he lived a happy life with lots of grass and treats.

“The fish?”

“No, my horse. From way back when. He’ll be dead now,” his stomach sinks with the revelation. Logically, he knew, but it hits him that Salmon really is dead. Along with all the other horses he bred as Dandelion, and the people he met in all his many years.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Everyone I used to know will be dead by now. Well, mostly. Geralt’s still around.”

“Are you speaking to him yet?”

“Not really,” he’s been avoiding communal areas for the past two days since the curse got fixed, “I should but I’m just pissed off.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy? You have all your memories with him back.”

His life would be much simpler if he hadn’t regained his memories. Maybe he could ask Yennefer to take them away. Or a fae, he did that once before. “They’re what’s making me pissed off. Adding to the hurt.”

Ciri rolls her eyes, “Don’t be so dramatic. You should speak to him. When he comes back.”

Jaskier frowns, “Comes back?”

“From his hunt. Did you not know he’d gone?”

He may not be an expert but snow still surrounds the keep, and there was a reason they sparred inside the main hall once the weather got too cold. It was dangerous to be outside for too long, never mind going on a hunt. Jaskier may be pissed at Geralt but he doesn’t want him to die.

“No, like I said. We’re not really speaking.”

* * *

Jaskier is sat in a cushioned windowsill reading some old scroll. He is definitely _not_ waiting up for Geralt to come back from whatever stupid hunt he’s gone off to do.

He doesn’t know how to feel. He fell out of love with Geralt over a year ago and moved on. Something he hadn’t thought possible when he was in love or in the past when said love was mutual. And now he’s suddenly been hit with three lifetimes worth of memories of love. There was so much love. Over a century of love had suddenly filled his mind. It didn’t feel like some long lost thing, his past lives didn’t get the memo he no longer felt that way when they made space for themselves in his mind.

Everything he remembers is just full of love for Geralt. Requited love.

Memories of sweet kisses and laughs and sex. Geralt had _loved_ him. And he doesn’t anymore.

Jaskier doesn’t understand what he had done wrong this time. Sure, he had been more reserved in the past than he had been in this life. But he isn’t so different as to warrant Geralt’s anger.

Maybe his very existence truly is the bane of Geralt’s existence. _Take you off my hands._ Jaskier realises Geralt is sick of him. Sick of seeing him. Sick of running into him life after life.

He can’t escape him anymore, what with the immortality thing. They’ll stay in each other’s lives for Ciri until she’s old enough to do her own thing and then they’ll split ways for good. Jaskier isn’t sure if he welcomes that eventuality or resents it, each person he once was warring in response to his ponderings.

Something flickers outside, he can’t see much in the dark but he makes out a figure riding back through the gates. Geralt is sat awkwardly on top of Roach, slumping over. And then he falls off.

Jaskier forgets his hurt. Forgets how mad he is at Geralt. His feet take him running as fast as he can down the winding steps of the tower and through the castle. He runs out across the courtyard to Geralt’s side.

“Geralt! Are you okay?” Jaskier falls to his side and sees the mass of blood rushing from his chest and stomach.

“Jaskier,” Geralt replies weakly. His eyes are half-lidded and struggling to stay open.

Jaskier puts his hand on where he thinks the blood is coming from but he can’t see in the darkness and under all the armour. He screams for help.

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats. “’m sorry.”

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay,” Jaskier reassures. His hands are slick with blood and he fans out his fingers and puts as much pressure as he can. He screams for help again. Why isn’t anyone coming?

“Jask,” Geralt’s voice holds more urgency and Jaskier finally looks at his face properly. “Sorry. For everything,” Geralt’s voice starts fading again. “Hurt you.” His eyes are closed now. “Shouldn’t’ve.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says pleadingly. “Stay awake. Please.” He screams for help again. His lungs have never carried his voice so loud. Where _is_ everyone?

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats again with a slurred voice. “Love you.”

“Geralt please,” Jaskier can feel hot tears down his face. Roach is trotting around them in circles and whinnying in distress. He’s suddenly struck with the realisation that in all his many lives he’s never had to deal with Geralt being the one to die.

Is this how Geralt felt every time?

“Please,” he sobs but Geralt is unresponsive.

Suddenly, there’s Vesemir in front of him on the other side of Geralt and pushing his hands down next to him. Someone tugs him away and he lashes against the body behind him and almost succeeds but arms wrap around his.

He sees Lambert calm Roach and lead her to the stables. He looks back at Geralt with worry clearly etched over his face which does nothing to reassure Jaskier that Geralt will make it.

Jaskier tries to break free from his hold once more but the arms tighten. “You can’t help him.” It’s Eskel. “You’ve done your best.”

Yennefer is there and Jaskier is glad to see her. She casts an incantation and Geralt is floating in the air and they’re rushing him inside. Jaskier stays standing with Eskel until his knees go weak. He can’t stop the sobs wracking his body.

Despite it all, Geralt had been his friend for twenty years. Had loved him for over a hundred. Whatever rift there was between them didn’t mean Jaskier wants him dead.

“He’ll be okay,” Eskel says confidently.

Jaskier nods and tries to stop the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is Wild Blue Yonder - The Amazing Devil, mostly Madeleine's parts bc Joey singing her opening lines in the background of Welly Boots was too good!
> 
> let me know what you thought! <3


	23. how you treat me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, im busier irl than when I started writing this so idk if ill be able to keep the two chapters a week schedule for these last few chapters (I was meant to have posted the last chapter by yesterday oops) but I promise to at least post once a week!
> 
> anyway, it's time for these idiots to talk! hope you enjoy <3

When Geralt wakes up the pain in his chest and stomach is blinding. There are bandages wrapped all the way up his torso and chest with patches of blood seeping through. There’s a fire blazing in the corner of the room making the room swell with warmth. Jaskier is asleep in a chair next to the bed.

Geralt takes a moment to rake his eyes over him. He hasn’t seen him much this winter. Only at meals and when Jaskier came to training, and Geralt couldn’t spend those times looking at him as much as he wants to. They’d kept their distance from each other and he doesn’t know why it’s Jaskier at his bedside; perhaps they’re all taking shifts and Jaskier only has to be here.

Nevertheless, Geralt lets himself take him in.

The firelight is dancing across Jaskier’s face and his hair is messed and falling over his eyes. Geralt’s fingers itch and he wants to run his hands through Jaskier’s hair. To take Jaskier’s hand which is lying on the bed. To hold him close.

His body betrays him and his fingers lightly brush Jaskier’s. It’s enough to wake him. Jaskier doesn’t seem to realise Geralt is awake just yet. He yawns and stretches in the chair. Rubs his eyes and looks around the room before he meets his eyes.

“Jaskier,” his voice is rough and cracked.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re awake. Let me get you some water.”

Jaskier moves to the other side of the room to fetch a glass of water. Geralt knows they’ll need to talk, and soon. He owes him that much. A proper apology for starters, for the many, many things Geralt has done to him. And an explanation for the _I love you_ he remembers had deliriously slipped out when he thought he would die.

He sits up and drinks the water slowly as Jaskier takes his seat. It’s not enough to quench his thirst but he doesn’t ask for another and places the glass to the side when he’s done. Geralt finally brings his eyes to face Jaskier and finds his blue eyes already on him.

Geralt takes a deep breath, “Jaskier, I’m sorry. For everything.”

“Okay,” Jaskier replies evenly, face not betraying his thoughts.

He’s never been good with words, preferring actions over pretty prose, but it’s his actions that have landed him here. No amount of talk will ever convey how deeply sorry he is for all his mistakes, and yet words are the only thing that will help.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I know you must hate me. I let you down. I couldn’t protect you.” He looks away, unable to see Jaskier confirm that it’s true. Confirm that he knows how Geralt has repeatedly failed him and he wants him out of his life.

“What do you mean?” comes Jaskier’s quiet voice.

Geralt winces, he’s really going to make him say it. Still, it’s less than the suffering he’s caused him to endure. Jaskier must remember the pain of dying. “It was my fault you died every time. I was meant to keep you safe and I never could.”

He dares to look back up at him and sees Jaskier with his mouth slightly agape, “Are you kidding me?”

The apology wasn’t enough. He’s not beyond begging at this point, “Jaskier, I’m truly sorry-”

“That’s not what I’m mad about,” Jaskier cuts him off and rises from his seat so he towers over him. “Are you seriously-” he interrupts himself with a bitter laugh. He runs a hand down his face, “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, that’s not even close.”

“What?” Geralt frowns, confused.

“Do you really not know?” Jaskier huffs disbelievingly.

He shakes his head a little, ashamed that he’s failed Jaskier in ways he hadn’t even thought of.

“You didn’t cause me to die, Geralt. Any of the times,” Jaskier starts. He begins to pace in a small circle by the bedside, “I mean, really? Do you think that’s why I want an apology? I want to know why you’ve treated me like shit when I fucking remember you being in love with me,” his voice cracks at the end and he looks hopelessly at him.

Geralt freezes and he thinks even his heart stops beating. His efforts to keep Jaskier from harm had been a sacrifice; he had wanted nothing more than to share the love they used to have but it wasn’t safe. 

Jaskier continues in the face of his silence, “Even if you didn’t want that anymore then we could still be friends. I thought we were,” his shoulders slump and he stops pacing. He looks at the fire roaring away on the other side of the room, Geralt notices a tear run down his face. “I thought we were friends, I thought you were just naturally crotchety and guarded. Because you kept me around, so you must have cared about me.”

“I did,” Geralt pleads and Jaskier sniffles.

“Then you met Yennefer and you were never like that with her. And Ciri. You’re nice to them. You never were to me.” Jaskier turns around and his eyes and cheeks shine with tears. “That’s when I knew you didn’t care. And I stayed anyway, but the mountain,” he shakes his head.

Geralt sucks in a breath at the mountain and the harsh words he had flung at Jaskier that day. He’d never got round to formally apologising, he thought that acting like normal and giving Jaskier his space would have fixed it. “I didn’t mean what I said that day,” he says weakly.

Jaskier shakes his head, “Yes, you did. If you didn’t want me around you could have told me to leave. Properly. Way back at the start. Or left me behind.” He kicks at the floor, “Instead you let me follow you for twenty years and threw it in my face.”

He tries to push up and out of bed but his wounds keep him there. “I know,” he admits, “I should have, but I wanted you there.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jaskier denies. “If you wanted me then you would have treated me with any amount of respect.”

“I wanted you but I couldn’t bear to see you die again,” Geralt growls, his voice growing loud. Jaskier can accuse him of many things but not wanting him isn’t one of them. “I didn’t let myself do all that again because you would die and it would be my fault again.”

“It was never your fault,” Jaskier shouts, arms spread.

Geralt grits his teeth, “It was. Every time. When I saw you in Posada I was going to leave. And then you started following me and I was going to leave you and I couldn’t.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue, “Yeah, yeah, must have been really hard for you,” he says sarcastically.

Geralt grunts in frustration, “Dammit Jaskier, it was fucking difficult. You come back over and over and never remember me. I’ve watched you die too many times, I didn’t want to watch it again. You’d be safer without me and I was too much of a coward to break ties properly – so, I did it in the hopes that it would be enough to keep you safe, or you’d leave on your own.”

Jaskier is silent and they lock gazes for a long stretch. Then Jaskier turns and walks over to the fireplace, he rests his hands on the mantle and drops his head. Geralt can’t see his face to guess what he’s thinking, nor can he make sense of the multitude of emotions he can smell on him.

He sinks back against the pillows slightly and lets out a deep breath. In the silence he has more time to reflect, running over the last twenty years. Jaskier had never been put off by his taciturn nature, no matter how rude he was the bard always came back to sing his praises. Now, he truly thinks back on his actions and knows that Jaskier is right. There had been plenty of occasions he had pushed too hard, been too rude. Denying Jaskier’s friendship; at the time he hadn’t dared to let him even that close, but friend is just a word and Jaskier had been his in every way that counts. For Geralt to say they weren’t was just the tip of the iceberg in all he’s done wrong.

Guilt seizes his gut as his mind helpfully supplies endless examples of his cruelty. It’s a miracle Jaskier stayed with him for so long. No apology could ever make up for what he did and the words die in his throat as the silence lingers.

All he can hear is the crackling of the fire and Jaskier’s steady breathing. The salt of tears in the air has dried but Jaskier has barely moved an inch, still staring into the fire. Geralt isn’t sure he’s ready for what Jaskier will ask of him. The mountain pass is still blocked but would be just about travelable if Jaskier wanted to leave and never see him again. Or maybe he’ll ask Geralt to leave. Except he knows that neither of them would abandon Ciri like that.

He waits for Jaskier to speak his mind. He’s bared his soul, there’s no defence for his actions so he can only await his sentence. Whatever it may be.

More time stretches until Jaskier finally turns around, he stays over by the fireplace. His jaw is set tight and his arms cross defensively over his chest. Geralt sits up again and thinks he’s never been so scared in his life.

“You know what’s the worst part, Geralt?” he asks, voice thick with emotion but resolute. “I understand why,” he nods to himself. “I understand why because I was there, and I remember how much it hurt you when I died each time.” He sniffs and wipes at his eyes before any tears can fall, “I understand why you treat me the way you do and it still fucking hurts.”

Geralt fills with remorse, “I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, his own eyes filling with tears. “I never meant to hurt you. I was trying to save you from it.”

“You can’t control when I die but you can control how you treat me when I’m around,” Jaskier points out.

“I know,” he realises now how wrong he has been. He still blames himself for Jaskier’s deaths, he’ll never believe he wasn’t at fault, but he sees now that it was wrong not to cherish the time they did have together. “I was wrong. I’m sorry, is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Jaskier licks his lips and shrugs helpless, “Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I’ll do anything,” Geralt promises. He sounds desperate but he doesn’t care, he is. He’ll gladly take whatever scraps Jaskier is willing to give him. Whether it’s just existing in the same space or being friends properly like they had before Geralt ruined it with the djinn. “We can go back to how things were before I got too scared of losing you.”

Jaskier shakes his head and Geralt’s heart sinks. Of course, he’s pushed them past the point of no return. “I can’t be them again,” Jaskier says quietly avoiding his gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t be Julian. Or Buttercup or Dandelion. Who they were isn’t who I am. I mean they were, but they’re not _me_. I- I know you must miss them but,” Jaskier runs his hand through his hair, “I’m not them. Not anymore. Even if I remember now.”

Geralt understands then. That Jaskier must think that he only wants who he used to be, that he wants a romantic relationship. Geralt loves him more than anything but he wouldn’t dare ask for that from Jaskier. Not when he knows that love isn’t returned. Not after what he’s put the bard through. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Right. Good,” Jaskier doesn’t seem to be reassured. Geralt scents a fresh wave of hurt roll of him and he doesn’t know what caused it. “Okay.”

He searches Jaskier’s face for any semblance of what he might be thinking but he keeps his face passive. There’s the pinch of his eyebrows and the tight way he holds himself that lets Geralt know he’s still unhappy but he doesn’t know how to fix it. “I really am sorry, Jaskier. I just want to be your friend, if you’ll let me.”

Jaskier takes a few deep breaths and shuffles on the spot. “Thank you for your apology. I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you right now.”

Geralt keeps his face from showing his heartbreak that he’s ruined any chance at having Jaskier meaningfully in his life. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he says quietly, knowing he won’t ever push Jaskier to do anything again, “You shouldn’t.”

Jaskier nods and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “Here,” he grabs Geralt’s empty glass and refills it. “I’ll go tell the others you’re awake,” he hands the glass back and leaves him alone.

The silence left in his wake is different, there’s no tension just emptiness. Geralt clutches the cold glass as droplets of condensation run down the sides and wet his skin. He wonders if this glass of water will be the last thing Jaskier ever gives him.

He takes a sip and sets it aside. Jaskier doesn’t forgive him and Geralt can’t blame him for that. Geralt doesn’t forgive himself either.

Jaskier has spent twenty years giving Geralt his friendship when all he did was resist his attempts to kindle a close relationship. He’s tried giving him space before and it only landed them in murkier waters. Jaskier may not forgive him or want to be his friend, and Geralt can accept that he may never have him as a friend again, but he can start treating him like one.

It’s the least he deserves. Respect. From now on Geralt will put all his efforts into mending what he has broken. Even if Jaskier never forgives him then at least he will know that Geralt truly does care about him.

He doesn’t have long to stew in his thoughts because the door flies open and Ciri comes running inside. She hurries to his side and throws herself at him, he grunts in pain as she presses on his wounds but he curls his arms around her and holds her tight.

“Are you alright?” she asks, face muffled in his shoulder.

“Just about.”

She pulls away and then shoves him harshly, thankfully not enough to jostle any of his injuries too much. “What the hell were you thinking?”

He shrinks in the face of her anger and disappointment, “I wasn’t.”

“Clearly,” she tuts, and then the anger drops in replacement of worry. “I thought you were going to die.”

Geralt reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, it’s gotten a bit longer since the start of winter. It falls to her shoulders and is braided on one side that he recognises as Jaskier’s work. “Me too.”

“Don’t do it again,” she admonishes, settling back onto the bed next to him, “I need you alive.”

“Everyone else would look after you if I died,” he reassures her. Yennefer and Ciri had bonded fast and Jaskier had always been apart of her life. Even Eskel and Lambert would take on responsibility for her care despite her being his Child Surprise.

She scrunches her nose and looks at him incredulously, “I know, I don’t only need you to protect me. You’re my family, I want you.”

Geralt may or may not tear up. “I won’t do it again,” he promises. He won’t do anything to jeopardise her safety or her happiness. That’s where he went wrong with Jaskier; he was so focussed on his safety he forgot his happiness. He pledges to himself to do everything he can to ensure the happiness of his family.

* * *

He’s bedridden for three days as his wounds slowly heal. Ciri keeps him company as much as she is able. Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir had all come to tell him how much of an idiot he was but they were glad he was alive. Even Yennefer had visited him and he thinks one day they’ll be able to be good friends.

Jaskier visits him once a day for a few minutes. He’ll ask the cordial questions of how he’s feeling and if he needs anything and then leave.

It’s more than Geralt expects from him but he’s still grateful for their brief encounters. He tries to talk more, tell him he’s thankful, but mostly he wants to heal quicker so he can make himself more useful.

There’s one thing that is still eating at him. The djinn wish. He doesn’t know if Jaskier was ever aware of Renfri’s prophecy but he deserves to know. Geralt can’t earn his friendship again in the shadow of another lie.

When he’s finally cleared, he cleans up and limps down the hall to Jaskier’s room. He raises a hand to knock before he can back out. There’s shuffling and the door opens, Jaskier blinks confused at the sight of him. “Oh, uh, can I help you?”

“Can I come in?”

Jaskier looks hesitantly behind him but steps aside to let Geralt in. The room is in a bit of a state, the bed unmade and papers all over the desk lightly fluttering from the draft that sweeps through the room.

“What do you want, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, a fake levity that doesn’t conceal the wariness in his tone.

Geralt sighs knowing he doesn’t come baring any good news. “In the name of honesty, there’s still something you don’t know.”

Jaskier stills, “And what’s that?”

“You knew Renfri,” Geralt starts and Jaskier nods, fingers going to the ring on his right hand. Now that Geralt thinks about it, Jaskier had started wearing that ring around the time they were passing by Blaviken. “Did she ever tell you about me?”

Jaskier looks to his feet, “She told me you were my destiny.”

“She told me the same,” Geralt pauses, bracing himself for the next thing he’s about to say. “In Rinde, the djinn, I wished to tie my destiny to Yennefer instead of you. I thought that way I wouldn’t have to see you die again.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Makes sense,” he nods with a bitter smile and a forced laugh, “I know how much you hate destiny.”

Geralt wishes he hadn’t been so stupid as to throw away someone like Jaskier. “I was scared,” he explains, knowing it doesn’t excuse anything. “I hurt both you and Yennefer. I’m sorry. I can’t fix it but you deserved to know.”

Jaskier sighs heavily, “Thank you for telling me. Is that all?”

Geralt nods and Jaskier opens the door for him, he walks out feeling both better for having finally let go of all his secrets and clouded in shame for committing them in the first place.

* * *

A week later they are all sat around the table for dinner. Jaskier is in lighter spirits that Geralt has seen in a long time, he laughs with Ciri and Lambert over a joke he didn’t catch and Yennefer and Eskel are engaged in a conversation about magic. It’s almost like the family they had back when he was Julian, except this time with more people and nothing hidden.

“Can you pass the salt?” Jaskier asks, making grabby hands at the salt too far out of reach.

Vesemir is closest but Geralt can easily reach and swipes the salt first. He hands it over to Jaskier, who briefly pauses when the salt gets pressed into his palm. “Thank you,” he says a little tightly but quickly settles back into his jovial conversation.

Geralt watches him and wishes he could be the one to make him smile like that. Small steps. Hopefully one day Jaskier will smile at him again.

* * *

Geralt neatly folds the various chemises and trousers into a pile. It was his turn on laundry duty. Usually, he would leave everyone’s clothes in various rumpled piles until they came to collect them from the airing room.

Jaskier has always kept his clothes folded neatly on the road so as to avoid creases; he didn’t have the same collection of bright coloured clothes now. He had lost it all. Geralt is still selfishly holding onto the doublet and chemise hidden in his room. For winter, Jaskier had been borrowing thicker clothes from the Witchers. They didn’t crease the same way satin did but the least he could do was fold his clothes for him now.

He sets them aside and also begins to fold everyone else’s clothes. He is prioritising everyone’s happiness, not just Jaskier’s. That being said, he does pick up Jaskier’s pile and take it with him to deliver to his room.

He knocks on Jaskier’s door and the bard doesn’t seem surprised to see him, but he doesn’t look too happy either. “I brought your clothes,” he sheepishly presents the pile of folded laundry.

Jaskier blinks in surprise and takes the pile, their hands brushing in the exchange, “You folded them,” he states but it sounds like a question.

“Hmm,” he hums in agreement. “I know you don’t like them getting creased.”

“Oh, thank you,” Jaskier holds the pile of clothes to his chest and rocks on his heels, “Anything else you wanted?”

“No, that’s all,” Geralt takes the dismissal easily. A few household tasks wouldn’t fix anything. He still has time to make up for it. “Have a good evening.”

* * *

Geralt is sat in the kitchen with a bottle of alcohol trying to relax. His stomach and chest wounds have healed enough to start sparring again. His body had gotten used to going without heavy lifting and fighting again has caused his muscles to tense up. He rolls his shoulders trying to dispel the tension and grunts when nothing changes. He takes another sip of the liquor hoping it’ll soon ease his pain.

The kitchen door opens and Jaskier stands sheepishly in the doorway. “Sorry, I came for a midnight snack,” he hovers in the doorway.

Geralt waves at the pantry invitingly and Jaskier starts rooting through it. “Would you like a drink?” he offers. He remembers the gripping fear when Lambert had woken him saying Jaskier had drunk this alcohol. He had just been granted immortality to die the same night. The knowledge that he can’t so easily die this time is comforting.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder, he chews his lip in thought and nods, “Sure.”

He comes back with a hunk of bread and cheese and sits opposite Geralt as he pours him a drink. They drink in silence, an awkward air between them but Geralt is just glad that Jaskier has decided to stay.

Jaskier finishes his drink and his food a few minutes later, “I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier rises from his chair.

“Sleep well.”

Jaskier glances at him from the doorway and gives him a small wave. Geralt’s heart flutters but he doesn’t let his thoughts travel down that path. He just is thankful that maybe Jaskier doesn’t hate him entirely. When he later goes to bed, he finds that the tension in his muscles is all but gone.

* * *

The library of Kaer Morhen is easy to spend hours in. Geralt doesn’t know how many scrolls and books are stored her but he knows in his two hundred years he’s barely got through a tenth of it. Most of it is monster lore, some alchemy and magic. At the very back, in the dustiest dried up corner, is a section on social etiquette. It dates way back to when Witchers were a wanted part of society, expected to go to courts and maintain relations with the nobles. Not that Geralt ever witnessed that era.

He’d believe it was bullshit if it weren’t for the browned old pages detailing various manners and essential knowledge for dealing with human nobility. Most of it looks like bullshit, and that’s not what he’s here for.

Tucked away in this section is music sheets.

Geralt doesn’t really understand what all the lines, dots and swirls mean. He’s seen it in Jaskier’s journals enough to know that the bard can read sheet music. He doesn’t know if it’s any good but he carefully folds up the papers and tucks them into his pocket.

He doesn’t go straight to Jaskier’s room. He’s already promised Ciri he’ll show her how to make healing potions and salves, modified to be safe for humans, and it takes up most of his day.

It’s dinner when he next sees him, and after when everyone slips away Geralt catches him in the hallway. “I found this for you,” he explains and hands over the music sheets.

Jaskier unfolds them and scans over the notes, “Where did you find this?”

“The library. It’s older than me, I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“Older than us, you mean,” Jaskier quips, a small smile.

That’s when Geralt remembers that Dandelion had been two years older than him. “You have a new body, doesn’t count.”

“Does too,” Jaskier says confidently.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier gives him a tentative smile, “Thanks for the music. I’ll go play it.”

Geralt watches him go. Jaskier had smiled at him. It gives him hope that one day he might be able to make amends.

* * *

Jaskier sits at the side of the hall watching the rest of them train with swords. He hasn’t joined them for training as much since he got his memories back. Sometimes he’ll spar with Ciri, Lambert or Eskel but he no longer needs to learn the basics. When he does join them his movements are the same as they had once been as Julian, if a little rusty.

Geralt catches sight of him rubbing at the back of his neck with a wince. Jaskier hasn’t joined them in a few days so he shouldn’t be strained from any muscle injuries. He keeps an eye on him as he works with Ciri, every do often Jaskier will rub his neck with a wince.

They finish up after a few hours and Jaskier takes their swords off them to organise while everyone cleans up. “Are you alright?” he asks, “Your neck,” he clarifies at Jaskier’s confused face.

“Oh,” Jaskier’s hand flies to his neck subconsciously, “There’s a draft in my room.”

Ciri calls for Jaskier and that marks the end of their conversation. That night the wind howls loudly outside and all Geralt can think about it the draft in Jaskier’s room. At breakfast he winces even more at any movement of his neck.

Geralt knows it’s an invasion of privacy but he sneaks into Jaskier’s room during his morning lessons with Ciri. He finds the source of the draft, a gap between the windowpane and the wall.

He quickly fetches some wood and nails and makes his way back. The wood's colour doesn’t match the wall but it stops the surprisingly strong breeze emanating from it. There’s another smaller draft that he hadn’t noticed before coming from the floor. It takes a while to locate the hole in the wall along the floor but he settles in to fix that up too. The door opens when he’s halfway done and a startled yelp comes from Jaskier.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Fixing your draft,” Geralt explains lamely. He hadn’t thought he would be caught but he’s clearly taken more time than he thought. He had intended to fix the draft without Jaskier even realising he had been in here.

“Oh, um, thank you,” Jaskier stands and watches him for a while before settling on the bed and grabbing his lute. The sound of music relaxes Geralt and he sets back to work.

It’s been a long time since he was privy to hearing Jaskier play or even sing. He’s missed it more than he even realised. He works a little slower to relish the time he gets to listen to it.

Jaskier begins to sing and Geralt’s breath catches in his throat at the rich tone of his voice. It’s not a song he recognises, nor is it in keeping with Jaskier’s usual lyrical style. He ends much too soon for his liking but then Jaskier speaks, “That was the song you found for me. With some modernisation, it was very outdated.”

Geralt looks up in surprise, “You liked it?”

Jaskier nods, “Not bad for a song found in a Witcher’s library.”

Geralt feels a bloom of pride in his chest that he managed to find something for Jaskier that he liked. Jaskier goes back to playing, this time Geralt does know the tune he plucks on his lute but when the lyrics come in he remains silent. “You’re not singing?”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Jaskier looks somewhere between surprised and hopeful.

Geralt shakes his head, “No, I like your singing.”

Jaskier’s hands falter on the strings, “What?”

“I like your singing,” Geralt tries to keep his voice even as embarrassment tints his cheeks, “You know I’ve always liked it.”

Jaskier makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat but says no more. He starts to sing softly and Geralt works contentedly until the draft is gone. He doesn’t make it obvious until the song is over and then he stands, “All done.”

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly, giving him a sweet smile.

Geralt knows that while he may be in love with Jaskier, romance will never happen between them again. Still, his heart swells at the sight of his smile. “Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everythings out in the open now! i hope you liked it! a huge thank you to everyone who's been reviewing, you give me the motivation to keep writing, let me know what you thought <3


	24. holding on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, last chapter: i promise to update once a week :)  
> me: doesn't update for 12 days
> 
> sorry for the long wait, my head was Empty and words didn't wanna come, also sorry for the emotional whiplash of singing you back into the angst after the softer ending to the last chapter. buuuut its extra long and there's lots of yennefer so I hope you like it!

It takes a few moments for Jaskier’s legs to start working and he trails after Vesemir and Yennefer transporting Geralt inside. His legs are wobbly and Eskel still has a hand firmly on his shoulder holding him up. By the time they make it inside the trio are out of sight, only a sickening trail of blood dropped on the floor.

“Hey, calm down,” Eskel says steadily, bringing him over to the wall to lean against.

Jaskier sucks in a breath and wipes at his face, wet with hot tears and his throat feel swollen from screaming for help and sobbing. It’s like being back in Rinde except ten times worse because this time he saw Geralt bleeding out. The keep is eerily silent. He may already be dead.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Yennefer comes to tell them Geralt hasn’t made it. Geralt dying had never been something he thought he’d ever have to deal with. Sure, he faced potential death on every hunt but Jaskier always steadfastly believed it wouldn’t happen.

Geralt has done a lot of wrong but he doesn’t deserve to die. Jaskier doesn’t want him to die. Everyone here needed him as a brother, a father. And Jaskier could barely stand to look at him these past few days but seeing Geralt bleeding out reaffirmed that he still needed him alive. Geralt was an unquestionable part of his life and had been since he was eighteen; or, going even further back, since he was twenty the first time round. He’s immortal now, he has plenty of time to heal and maybe have Geralt as a friend again. He should have.

He can’t do that if Geralt is fucking dead.

“He’ll be alright,” Eskel soothes him again, “He’ll be alright.”

Jaskier’s throat catches in another ragged sob. He sucks in a breath to try and pull himself together. The door opens with a cold gust of wind and Lambert steps back inside. He and Eskel share a look of concern that doesn’t go unnoticed by Jaskier and it sets a pool of dread in his gut.

“What happened?” Lambert asks. “Did you know he was out of the keep?”

“Ciri said he went on a hunt,” Jaskier tells them, throat cracking.

Lambert curses and kicks at the wall, “Idiot.”

“What’s going on?” a small voice asks.

Jaskier looks over to see Ciri rubbing sleepily at her eyes, walking down the staircase towards them. He looks at Lambert and Eskel who can’t meet her gaze and knows he’s going to have to be the one to break the news. “Geralt came back from his hunt. He’s been injured. Yennefer and Vesemir are trying to heal him now.”

Ciri’s eyes go wide with panic and she looks so small at the thought of losing her father figure his heart breaks. It’s hard to believe that she survived and escaped Cintra on her own after losing their family. Jaskier will never forgive himself for not being there for her. But he’s seen how strong she is, stronger than him, so he supposed it’s not that hard to believe.

“He’ll be alright,” he promises but the words are hollow. “Come on, let’s get a snack,” he reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder and notices the bright stain of blood on his arms and soaking up his sleeves. He hastily retreats his hand and tries his best to hide it behind his back.

She’s already seen it, though, and her panic increases. “Is that his blood? I want to see him.”

Jaskier wants to see him too, just to prove to himself that Geralt is still breathing. Her worry matches his own and he doesn’t know how to comfort her when he’s in no better position than she is. Thankfully, Eskel saves him and puts a hand on her back guiding her to the kitchen. “C’mon, kid, Vesemir made some sweetbread today.”

They disappear around the corner leaving only him and Lambert. Since getting his memories back, Geralt hasn’t been the only difficult relationship to navigate. He knew the rest of the Witchers as Julian, they were his family, now he has all this information about them that he doesn’t feel he’s earned as Jaskier. He can’t just jump back into old familial relationships when he thought he only knew them for less than a season.

And he’s not Julian anymore. A fact which he’s sure all the Witchers are disappointed by. His reception at the start of winter makes more sense now, their hesitation to let him in and the tentative friendships they had made over the past couple of months. But now he has the memories of something deeper that don’t reflect what they mean to each other now. Lambert told Julian about his father giving him to the Witchers, not Jaskier. Eskel told Julian about his Child Surprise and scars, not Jaskier.

Jaskier doesn’t know how to cultivate that again, doesn’t know if they want him to.

Despite all that, he still technically has been Lambert’s friend for decades, even if his mind won’t correlate that to himself. “Are you alright?” he asks the Witcher before him.

Lambert nods but his face betrays his true feelings. Jaskier doesn’t prod but he knows that Geralt means a lot to him and neither of them could bear to lose him. “You should change,” Lambert states gruffly.

Jaskier glances at the dried blood on his hands and shirt, the cloth will hardly be salvageable. “Yeah,” he breathes, still frozen looking at his hands. That’s Geralt’s blood. Certainly not the first time they’ve been covered in it, but he fears that this will be the last. “What if he doesn’t make it?”

“He will,” Lambert responds quickly. “You’re still welcome here if he doesn’t,” he adds quietly.

That hadn’t been something that had crossed his mind but it’s some comfort. He shakes himself off and makes his way to his room. He dumps the ruined shirt in the corner of his room and washes his hands at the basin in his room. The cold water stings his hands and the blood flakes off as he rubs harshly at his skin.

Was it his fault? He’d been harsh to Geralt these past few days, just as harsh as the Witcher had been to him – he should know better. Jaskier wonders what it must have been like for Geralt, to have Jaskier suddenly remember all their past lives. Had he been happy he remembered, only to be shut out? Had he been angry he now knew the truth, and left to brood?

He dries his hands and pulls on a new shirt, dark and heavy and so unlike his usual finer clothes. He doesn’t mind all that much but he does miss the silks. Jaskier sits at the edge of his bed as the past half an hour settles in. It all happened so quick it feels like days ago.

Jaskier closes his eyes and runs through it all, he’s struggling enough with reconciling his memory, he doesn’t need to confuse the present on top of that. Geralt had come back. He’d apologised. He told him he loved him.

He swallows as he hears Geralt’s ‘Love you’ echo in his head clear as day.

Just over a year ago, he would have done anything to hear Geralt say that. Now it just adds more complications. Geralt didn’t love him, that much was obvious. Besides, the man thought he was dying; he probably was saying that to the men who had once had his face. Dandelion, Buttercup, Julian. Geralt was facing his final moments, he may not have even realised he was speaking, or speaking to Jaskier.

But he had apologised to _him_. He didn’t need to say sorry to anyone else.

When Geralt wakes up he’ll probably forget the whole thing. Jaskier wishes he could too.

One thing he knows for sure is that when Geralt does wake up, if he wakes up, then Jaskier will have to talk to him. No more waiting around for Geralt to approach him first. He’ll tell the man straight up how he hurt him and ask what the hell Geralt wants from him.

He runs his hand through his hair and makes his way back to the kitchen. He hears the low rumbling of Eskel talking to Ciri and finds her sat at the table with a few slices of sweetbread and a steaming mug. There’s dried tear tracks on her face and he feels guilt for leaving her alone for so long.

Jaskier sits at the chair next to her and she looks to him, “He won’t die, will he, Jas?”

“No,” he brushes down her hair still messy from sleep, “No, he’ll be fine.”

Eskel gets him a mug of tea and together they all sit and drink and nibble at the sweetbread. They try not to talk about Geralt but it sits heavy on all their minds. Jaskier feels the uncomfortable rolling of his stomach, the shiver constantly on his spine and sting in his fingertips of anxiety refusing to leave. He keeps an ear out hoping for any sign that Yennefer and Vesemir are successful, or even unsuccessful, but he can’t hear anything.

It’s well past dawn when they hear footsteps coming towards them. Vesemir comes through the doorway looking haggard.

“Well?” Eskel prompts.

“He’s alive,” Vesemir responds and they all sag in relief. “He’s lost a lot of blood. It’s a miracle he survived. He’s sleeping, we don’t know when he’ll wake up.”

The relief quickly vanishes but Jaskier holds onto the fact that he’s alive. “Can we see him?” Ciri asks.

Vesemir nods and takes them to Geralt’s room where they had taken him after they patched him up. Jaskier’s heart stops at the sight of him. He looks pale and limp amongst the sheets. His skin is pallid and sticky with sweat, his lips tinting blue. He looks dead.

Ciri gasps and Jaskier wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind. “He’ll need to be watched at all times,” Vesemir tells them, “In case something goes wrong.”

“I’ll watch him,” Jaskier offers without hesitation.

“We’ll take shifts,” Eskel adds, “We don’t know how long it’ll be. Go get some sleep, Vesemir.”

The oldest Witcher leaves them for much needed rest and the three of them gather around Geralt’s bedside. Ciri trembles in Jaskier’s arms at the sight and there’s nothing he can do to help her.

It’s strange seeing Geralt so weak, so vulnerable. He’d always put up the front of being unendingly strong. Jaskier had been privy to moments where his defences were down, whether it was after being particularly injured or just relaxing at camp. And his mind can now supply countless examples of Geralt in intimate moments, memories he doesn’t feel entitled to. Memories that feel like he’s intruding on moments shared between Geralt and his past selves. Which is ridiculous because it was him, he remembers doing it, how it felt, and yet they feel so far from who he is.

He’s never seen Geralt like this. On death’s doorstep. As though if the fireplace burned a little warmer it would burn right through him. Jaskier doesn’t like seeing him like this. He wonders if this is how Geralt had felt seeing him die in the past.

If it is then it’s a feeling he wouldn’t be able to live through three times.

They remain vigilant for a few hours until Ciri gets too tired and reluctantly goes to bed. He and Eskel remain, Lambert drops in to see Geralt for a while and the two Witchers leave together.

Jaskier dares to take Geralt’s hand, so limp and cold in his own. He runs his thumb over Geralt’s knuckles and squeezes, “You better wake up soon.”

He drifts in and out of sleep, slouched awkwardly in the armchair dragged to the side of the bed, hand still clutching Geralt’s. The others all filter in and out as the day passes and eventually he gets pried out of the chair to get some food and proper rest. He’s only gone for a few hours before he’s back at Geralt’s bedside. He can’t stomach being away when every moment makes him feel sick at the chance Geralt might still die.

On the second day, Yennefer comes in and sits opposite him. She looks worse for wear, he can only guess how much energy she exerted trying to heal him.

“I did always wonder why he kept you around, what with all the,” she waves her hand vaguely at him and makes a face of distaste, “Foppery.”

“Thanks, Yen,” he responds dryly.

“I understand now.”

“Do tell.”

“He loves you.”

Jaskier laughs bitterly, “Loved, I think you mean. Whatever he saw in me was something long gone. He kept me around because he loved someone else.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “You and I both know that’s not true.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he sighs deeply. Geralt’s hand rests heavy in his, slightly warmer and looking more alive than he had yesterday but he hasn’t even moved in his sleep. He isn’t sure why he’s holding it. It’s compulsive, he can’t not. He isn’t sure if it’s the versions of him who still love him making him hold his hand, or if it’s something he’s doing as Jaskier.

“What do you think all this is about?” she gestures to Geralt. “You.”

Jaskier hums, he had a suspicion it would be, “Yeah, me and all the memories I now have that don’t belong to me.”

“Are you being purposefully obtuse?”

“Are you being purposefully cryptic?” he counters.

Yennefer lets out a long sigh and seemingly gives up whatever she is trying to get him to believe. She stays for a few hours and they get into a few more petty arguments but it’s none of the harshness they threw at each other years ago. It’s alleviating, the normal way she talks to him as if Geralt isn’t dying, everyone else is heavy with it.

By the time she leaves, he feels better than he has in a while. Geralt is looking healthier with every hour that passes. Jaskier still doesn’t want to leave him. He drifts to sleep again, the one good thing being he doesn’t get nightmares anymore. In fact, he doesn’t dream at all.

* * *

Jaskier wakes with a crick in his neck, he yawns and stretches out trying to get comfortable in the chair. It’s still night time but the fire lights up most of the room, casting dark shadows around the edges. He blinks to adjust and his eyes catch on two others.

Geralt is awake and looking at him, “Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, suddenly spurring into motion, “You’re awake. Let me get you some water.”

He rises from his chair to pour a glass and realises that now Geralt is awake they can’t escape a conversation. He had wanted to talk but he wasn’t prepared for it. He hands the glass to Geralt who drinks it slowly.

Jaskier takes his seat awkwardly, unsure if he should leave and give Geralt his privacy or stay and talk. Does Geralt remember his confession before he passed out? He doesn’t think there’s a delicate way to bring up everything he wants to discuss.

Geralt starts first, “Jaskier, I’m sorry. For everything.”

“Okay,” Jaskier keeps his voice steady. He’s a little in shock that Geralt is saying those words while in a sane state of mind, and also relieved that he’s finally hearing it properly. But he wants to make sure Geralt really is properly apologising, that he’s doing it from a place of remorse and not because he thinks he has to.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says again, “I know you must hate me. I let you down. I couldn’t protect you.”

Jaskier pauses. For one, he doesn’t hate Geralt, not really. Angry at him, sure, but he could never hate him. Even after the mountain he hadn’t hated him, he got over it and would have been fine with never hearing an apology; but that was when he hadn’t thought he would see Geralt again. Secondly, he has no idea what Geralt means by not protecting him.

“What do you mean?” he asks warily.

Geralt flinches and Jaskier fears the worst, that there’s something else he doesn’t know. “It was my fault you died every time. I was meant to keep you safe and I never could.”

And, honestly, what? Jaskier can’t stop his mouth dropping open in shock at Geralt’s words as it clicks that Geralt thinks his issue is dying in his past lives. Somehow, the Witcher has found a way to blame himself for events beyond his control. And in doing so has completely ignored the very real consequences of his actions for the past twenty years.

Maybe he was a fool for thinking that Geralt would regret how he treated him. “Are you kidding me?”

“Jaskier, I’m truly sorry-”

He cuts him off before he has to hear anymore. “That’s not what I’m mad about.” He has to stand to deal with the anger that rises in him. Of course, Geralt didn’t think he’d done anything wrong in the past twenty years. “Are you seriously-” he laughs to himself, suddenly bitterly amused by the whole situation. It's typical that Geralt would get hung up on his supposed failings of heroism and be blind to the emotional torment he inflicted the rest of the time. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, that’s not even close.”

“What?”

“Do you really not know?” Part of him doesn’t believe that Geralt could be this oblivious. Surely he must know his words hurt, when Jaskier knew full well the man knew what sweet loving words were.

Geralt shakes his head and Jaskier takes a deep breath to calm himself. “You didn’t cause me to die, Geralt. Any of the times,” he spells out slowly. His legs itch and he paces to collect his thoughts amidst the rage and indignation. “I mean, really? Do you think that’s why I want an apology? I want to know why you’ve treated me like shit when I fucking remember you being in love with me,” the words tumble out before he can think and his voice cracks as his eyes suddenly well up with tears.

And that’s the crux of it, really, why it’s hurt so much these past few days. The fact that not only did Geralt hate him, he had once loved him. Jaskier had loved him for twenty years, had hoped and had been resigned, had finally accepted that it wasn’t going to happen and moved on. As if that hadn’t hurt enough, he then found out that Geralt could have loved him, _had_ loved him. Over and over and over and this time he wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough for love or friendship.

He just wants to know _why_. What did he do so wrong? Because even in the past when his family hadn’t loved him, Geralt had come along and made it all worth it. This time his family hadn’t wanted him and neither had Geralt. So it must be him, he was inherently unlovable despite his best efforts. If Geralt couldn’t love this version of him then it must be true.

Geralt is silent, will barely look at him.

He can’t take back the words and starts to ramble to fill the silence. “Even if you didn’t want that anymore then we could still be friends. I thought we were,” he stops pacing, suddenly exhausted. He’d never pushed for more than friendship and that hadn’t even been granted; back then he thought they truly were best friends even if Geralt denied it. How wrong he was. “I thought we were friends, I thought you were just naturally crotchety and guarded. Because you kept me around, so you must have cared about me.”

He’s aware of how pathetic he must sound, how desperate, but he can’t stop the words. He isn’t sure he wants to because at least Geralt will know what he feels.

“I did,” Geralt breaks his silence and it breaks Jaskier further. Did. Past tense. He had cared about him when he was Julian and everyone else. Not anymore.

He swallows and continues to pour his heart out, “Then you met Yennefer and you were never like that with her. And Ciri. You’re nice to them. You never were to me,” he whispers and turns away in an attempt to hide the tears running down his face. He still remembers that first time he saw Yennefer and Geralt together, at the start of their relationship, the way Geralt looked at her. He had looked at him like that once, not that he knew. Geralt barely knew her and yet he treated her better than he had treated Jaskier in their decade of companionship. “That’s when I knew you didn’t care. And I stayed anyway,” how naive he had been to stay and soak up whatever affection he could, “But the mountain,” he can’t finish his sentence.

In some ways, Jaskier is grateful for that day. It set him free. It meant he could leave, fall out of love and heal on his own. If Geralt hadn’t said that to him then he’d still be pining after him and damaging himself further. On the other hand, that day was the proof he had been avoiding that Geralt had resented him from the start.

“I didn’t mean what I said that day.”

“Yes, you did, if you didn’t want me around you could have told me to leave. Properly. Way back at the start. Or left me behind,” he can’t summon anger to his voice, he’s just exhausted. He kicks at the floor instead. It would have been so easy for Geralt to leave him behind. Jaskier isn’t stupid, he would have got the message if Geralt meant it – or maybe he was that stupid because he hadn’t got the message and ceaselessly followed him. “Instead you let me follow you for twenty years and threw it in my face”

“I know. I should have,” Geralt agrees and Jaskier clenches his jaw. “But I wanted you there.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If you wanted me then you would have treated me with any amount of respect,” he points out, spinning around, anger beginning to flare again.

“I wanted you but I couldn’t bear to see you die again. I didn’t let myself do all that again because you would die and it would be my fault again”

“It was never your fault,” he yells in exasperation. This wasn’t about Great’s misplaced guilt it was about never telling him the truth and stringing him along.

“It was. Every time. When I saw you in Posada I was going to leave. And then you started following me and I was going to leave you and I couldn’t”

Jaskier can’t believe his ears. Geralt griping about the fact he followed him as if it wasn’t something he let happen. “Yeah, yeah, must have been really hard for you.”

“Dammit Jaskier, it was fucking difficult,” Geralt growls, “You come back over and over and never remember me. I’ve watched you die too many times, I didn’t want to watch it again. You’d be safer without me and I was too much of a coward to break ties properly – so, I did it in the hopes that it would be enough to keep you safe, or you’d leave on your own.”

Jaskier clenches his jaw before he speaks. He can’t look at Geralt right now, he turns and walks over to the fireplace and leans against the mantlepiece. He stares into the flames hoping they’ll give him answers to everything.

So, Geralt had actively been trying to get him to leave from the start. Had been purposefully rude, closed off and gruff with him. Perhaps the man was a coward; Jaskier would have easily been left behind and they both knew it. Geralt couldn’t break ties properly. Jaskier closes his eyes as he realises that Geralt kept him around because of who he once was to him. That it was only because he had once been Julian, someone he loved, that he had been allowed to stay.

He cycles between anger and desperation. The lines between him and his memories begin to blur and he can’t quite find where his past selves all stop and he begins. The line must have been clear enough for Geralt to act the way he did.

Jaskier once again searches uselessly for the distinction that meant this time he wasn’t worthy of love. He remembers being Buttercup and Geralt trying to leave because he still loved Dandelion. He remembers it taking less than a few hours for Julian and him to share a bed. What had inspired so much devotion for them that within minutes of meeting Jaskier he had the opposite effect?

His anger gives way to sadness when he can’t find any concrete difference. His heart rate settles and his mind stops moving a mile a minute. Geralt eyes are still on him, he can feel them, but he stares into the gold of the fire instead.

Geralt’s justification of it all was to keep him ‘safe’. Jaskier thinks that’s bullshit because the roads are always safer when he travels with Geralt. But his brain catches up with the pain in Geralt’s voice when he said he had seen him die too many times. He feels a sudden guilt at not considering what was left behind each time he died.

Only two days ago he had been overcome with grief at the mere thought Geralt might die. And they don’t even love each other right now.

He does his best to cast his bias aside and think back to when his life had come to an end in the past. He doesn’t need to think hard to conjure the image of Geralt crying and holding his weakened body, fighting against the inevitable and the pain he hadn’t held back.

Jaskier knows if he saw Geralt die and then saw another man come back years later with the same face but a different name he wouldn’t react well.

He lets out a long breath and his shoulders sag. He can’t even be angry anymore. Well, he can, and he is, but not as much. Not when he understands how hard it must have been for Geralt to repeatedly see him die. He would struggle to face the reincarnation of any of his loved ones, never mind fall in love with them again.

Geralt must have reached his breaking point.

Still, it was no excuse for his behaviour. Only an explanation. There was no justification for treating him like a burden. He may understand but that didn’t magically heal the deep-rooted wounds.

Jaskier steels himself and pulls away from the fireplace, he turns around and crosses his arms to provide himself with some semblance of comfort. “You know what’s the worst part, Geralt? I understand why. I understand why because I was there, and I remember how much it hurt you when I died each time,” his eyes blur with tears and he wipes at his face before they can start up again. “I understand why you treat me the way you do and it still fucking hurts.”

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I was trying to save you from it.”

Jaskier believes him. He knows Geralt too well to think he would hurt him to be purely malicious. Whatever he did had been with the intent to help him, protect him. It was stupid and not thought out in the slightest but Jaskier knows it’s the truth.

“You can’t control when I die but you can control how you treat me when I’m around.”

“I know. I was wrong. I’m sorry,” Geralt’s voice is thick and tears shine in his eyes. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Fix it? How could either of them possibly fix what was so broken? Jaskier shrugs, he had wanted to fix it someday but he has no clue how. “Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I’ll do anything,” Geralt pleads, “We can go back to how things were before I got too scared of losing you.”

Jaskier stills. Clearly, Geralt has been afraid of losing him since before they even met – Julian’s death being the final nail in the coffin. That’s who Geralt wants, at the end of the day, he wants Julian. He wants Jaskier to be someone he’s not.

Had he been younger, still full of hope and desperate, he might have agreed to mould himself into the shape of the man he used to be.

He won’t subject himself to that. “I can’t be them again.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks, unaware of the turmoil plaguing Jaskier as he tries to make sense of himself. To the Witcher it’s probably a simple matter of him remembering and thus becoming. Jaskier wishes it were that easy.

“I can’t be Julian. Or Buttercup or Dandelion. Who they were isn’t who I am. I mean they were, but they’re not _me_.” It would be so easy if they were. They feel so present and so out of reach. All he’s ever known is this life, the others felt like iterations, practice runs. They had already existed in him, trying to go back felt like trying to be a child again. “I- I know you must miss them but I’m not them. Not anymore. Even if I remember now.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Geralt corrects.

“Right. Good,” Jaskier straightens his posture. He’d been wrong, Geralt didn’t want him to be Julian. Didn’t want him. Geralt was probably still sickened by the thought of doing anything like that with him. “Okay.”

“I really am sorry Jaskier. I just want to be your friend, if you’ll let me.”

Oh. Friends. He should be rejoicing at Geralt outright saying he wants to be friends. He’d been waiting for this since he was eighteen. Except it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth because it feels somewhat like pity. Geralt only wants to be friends with this version of him; can only bring himself to friendship after twenty years and almost dying.

“Thank you for your apology,” he keeps his voice as strong and steady as he can. “I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you right now.”

“You don’t have to forgive me. You shouldn’t.”

Jaskier nods, glad that Geralt won’t fight him on this. The ball is in his court now. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive Geralt, doesn’t know how all the hurt that burns within him will ever disappear.

“Here,” he refills Geralt’s water just to do something with his hands. “I’ll go tell the others you’re awake,” he excuses himself.

The air in the hallways feels cooler, stiller. He walks down the hall and leans against it to gather himself. He feels better than he has in weeks, everything finally out in the open and he’s said his peace of mind. His stomach still twists at the thought of how they’ll navigate living with each other in the future.

Sometime since waking, the sun has risen and he can hear voices drifting up from the kitchen. He walks slowly to them, their conversation cheery but more subdued than usual. They don’t notice him at first.

They all sit around the table making themselves bowls of porridge. Despite the morning sleepiness that still lingers on them they all smile and laugh with each other. Ciri sits beside Yennefer, the mage swiping a bit of dirt off the girls face with her thumb while she tries to squirm out of the way. Lambert and Eskel digging elbows into each other as they reach for the ladle at the same time. Vesemir watching them all with fond exasperation.

Family.

Ciri is already his family, Yennefer is close, and the others had once been. In time he might be able to find a place in it once again. The only thing missing is Geralt.

Jaskier isn’t ready to have Geralt back in his life like he once did. Even friendship was a step too far for the pain thrumming in his veins right now. He doesn’t know how but he hopes he’ll figure out how to forgive him.

“Geralt’s awake,” he announces and head’s snap to his.

Ciri is flying out of her seat faster than anyone else, whipping past him with nary a second glance and rushing up the stairs. The rest of them follow after her at a slower pace leaving him alone with the still full bowls.

He sits at the table and gets his own. It tastes bland on his tongue and each mouthful is a struggle to take. This is Geralt’s family. If Jaskier wants them to be his then he’ll need to forgive him sooner rather than later, or else he’ll never be a proper part of it.

* * *

Jaskier visits Geralt once a day. It’s only polite to check on him and while he can’t forgive him he wants him to heal quickly. The castle has been quiet with Geralt bedridden, everyone still on edge from the whole ordeal.

Ciri is spending more time training with swords and magic but Jaskier only joins them once. It had been a sudden shift from just about getting the basics down to knowing what to do. His past experience now working for him so he didn’t need to learn anymore.

He was still out of shape for it, but he didn’t need to train to get to a good level. Which meant that should the occasion arise he would be able to defend Ciri. He only wants to join them for practice every now and then. He’s never much liked sword fighting, now his memories of the Great Cleansing reinforce that and he likes the sword even less. He wonders how much his dislike of wielding a sword was his own doing and how much was Julian. How much of him is something new, original, and how much is something carried over. Is there anything unique left to him at all?

A knock at the door startles him out of his brooding and he gets up to answer. Geralt is there and the last person he expects to see. He had assumed that the Witcher would go back to avoiding him. “Oh, uh, can I help you?”

“Can I come in?”

Jaskier can tell from the look on Geralt’s face this isn’t going to be a fun conversation. He should shut the door in his face. Instead, he steps aside and lets him in. “What do you want Geralt?”

“In the name of honesty, there’s still something you don’t know.”

His stomach drops, “And what’s that?”

Geralt asks him about Renfri and Jaskier tells him about their shared destiny. He wants to know more about what Renfri told Geralt, wants to know about her last days whilst he waited uselessly in the forest. “In Rinde, the djinn, I wished to tie my destiny to Yennefer instead of you. I thought that way I wouldn’t have to see you die again.”

“Oh,” is all Jaskier can say, “Makes sense.” He flashes a smile and forces a laugh from his throat, “I know how much you hate destiny.”

He’s not surprised, really. He’s had less than a week to mull over being Geralt’s destiny so it’s no great loss that it was revoked before he even found out. The sting of rejection still burns hot within him and he almost wishes he could still channel it into jealousy of Yennefer. But Geralt screwed them both over so he can’t hate her for it.

“I was scared, I hurt both you and Yennefer. I’m sorry. I can’t fix it but you deserved to know.”

Jaskier wonders if it even changed anything. Rinde had been when things took a turn for the worse but they still travelled together, still shared what he had thought were good moments. And here they were, still together.

“Thank you for telling me. Is that all?”

Geralt nods and Jaskier opens the door for him and closes it once more. He was no expert on destiny but what did it mean? What had made them each other’s destiny in the first place and what had changed in its absence?

The only person who could lead him to the right answer was Yennefer.

He seeks her out and finds her in her laboratory mixing some plants together. “What are you making?”

Yennefer looks up and him and back to the leaves in her pestle and mortar, “None of your business.”

Jaskier hums and saunters in, taking a seat in the chair beside her and kicking up his feet onto the table. “Speaking of things that are none of my business, what’s the djinn wish binding you and Geralt like?”

Her hands still and her knuckles flex white, “What?”

“He just told me something fairly important and you’re the only one in a similar position.”

She continues grinding the plants, “No, leave me be.”

“Yen, please,” he whines.

“No.”

He pouts, “Pretty please?”

“Your please doesn’t have more value just because it’s pretty now,” she responds without looking up.

Jaskier puffs out his cheeks, “Please with a cherry on top?”

She side glances at him, “That’s bribery. Now that I can get behind.” She moves away from her mixture and faces him, “Fine, what do you want to know?”

“What does the wish feel like?”

Yennefer shrugs a little, “It doesn’t feel like anything. I didn’t know until the dragon hunt.”

Jaskier huffs, “Well, he told me that I was his destiny and he tied it to you instead. So, therefore, I’m not his destiny anymore. I’m trying to figure out what changed.”

Yennefer’s eyes flick back and forth as she thinks, “What was binding you in the first place?”

“Nothing,” he flounders, “Not anything I’m aware of.”

She frowns, “Then how did you know he was your destiny, and vice versa?”

Jaskier does a brief run-through of his life as Daffodil and of Renfri. What her curse was, how people followed her, and the random utterances of prophecy that would fall from her lips. Yennefer is already familiar with Stregobor’s research and spends a good few minutes denouncing the other mage which Jaskier finds hilarious.

Finally, she sinks back in her chair, “Well, seeing as nothing specifically bound you and the only effect it had was making you two travel to the same places I’d say nothing much has changed. That’s all it was with us, running into each other all the time.”

“Did it make you feel anything?” he asks quietly, suddenly fearful that all their past love might have been fiction. He may not feel as though that love belongs to him but he wants it to be real.

She shakes her head, “I thought it did, when I first found out. But what I mistook for love was just lust, a projection of what I wanted, nothing more.”

Jaskier breathes a small sigh of relief that the love they had once shared had been pure.

“Tell me, I’m curious,” Yennefer says after a moment of silence, “Who was it that cursed you?”

He frowns, “Did you not see when you were looking at it?”

She shakes her head, “I couldn’t see that deep. Just what the curse was, not the origins.”

Jaskier blushes as he remembers his folly as Dandelion and the insensitive song he had come up with. “A girl from my neighbourhood, Anathea.”

Yennefer raises her eyebrows in surprise, “Interesting.”

“You know her?”

She hums in agreement, “Not personally, she was at Aretuza before my time. She was one of the mages we studied but she went rogue like I did a long time ago.”

“Powerful?” he guesses, she must be to have placed such a curse on him with no training or real understanding of chaos.

Yennefer nods, “Some speculated that she was a Source, she had an immense natural aptitude for magic, but she wasn’t from the official bloodline so that got passed off as a rumour.”

“Wait, a Source like Ciri?” he asks, quickly doing his best to work through noble family lines. He’d never liked learning about that stuff but had learnt it three times so some of it stuck. Anathea definitely wasn’t royal but that didn’t mean royals didn’t have plenty of bastards that had been swept under the rug. Now that he thinks about it, it was likely that she had elf blood that had caused her deformities and orange eyes.

Yennefer hums in confirmation and Jaskier finally understands why his nightmares were always worse when he was around Ciri. He says as such to Yennefer and her eyes light up with interest, “Her magic was calling to the magic in your curse, aiding it.” He can see her mind going a mile a minute, hypothesis and connections he’ll never understand coming to light. “Interesting,” she mutters, setting aside the mixture she was making and fishing out a journal she’s been documenting her progress with Ciri in.

She begins to scribble and Jaskier stays in her company for a while, enjoying the comfortable silent, content with finally having answers.

* * *

Slowly, he begins to feel better. It’s still jarring seeing Geralt around the castle and he can’t help the spikes of bitterness at the sight of him. Apart from that his mood is much improved. No longer plagued by nightmares he’s actually getting decent rest for the first time in as long as he can remember.

His memories are beginning to settle. He’s closer to accepting the past as himself, finding traits within his personality that he traces back through time. His past selves have always been a part of him, now he just needs to figure out how much he lets them define him. He’s glad to find he isn’t losing himself to them, he’s still firmly Jaskier and always will be, but he no longer fights to distinguish himself.

Jaskier walks the fine line with those who once knew him between the expectation that he’ll go back to how he was and hesitation to let the current version of him in. Most noticeably in Lambert who is still standoffish towards him half the time, but that’s nothing unnatural.

They’ve gathered for dinner and he sits between Lambert and Ciri, the latter trying to cajole the Witcher into teaching her how to throw knives. “It’s more important than swords,” she argues, “Because I can be further away.”

“Once you can hold a sword properly,” Lambert throws back.

“I can! Jas, tell him,” she drags him into it, all the while glaring at the Witcher.

“She can,” he parrots, more willing to face Lambert’s wrath than Ciri’s.

Lambert scoffs and rolls his eyes, “I thought grown up’s were meant to take the same side against the child.”

“I am,” Jaskier smiles smugly.

Ciri cackles loudly and Jaskier joins, even Lambert can’t keep his surly expression and sniggers with them. He spots the salt across the table and reaches for it but it’s too far, “Can you pass the salt?”

He expects Vesemir to hand it to him as it is right next to him, but Geralt reaches out and hands it to him first. Jaskier freezes for a second when they make eye contact. It’s easy to forget about Geralt when he isn’t looking at him. He isn’t obsessing over an apology or explanations anymore – but when he sees him it’s hard to forget all the mistreatment he endured. He still has manners, though, “Thank you.” He nods and turns his attention back to Ciri hoping one day he can relax around his once travel companion.

* * *

Jaskier glares at the space in his window that lets in an awful draft. It hadn’t been as bad in the peak of winter, somehow, because ice had clogged the gap. Now, the space is free of any obstruction and let the cold chill of the last freeze of winter into his room. It's just his luck that the air followed a route directly to both his desk and bed so he could always feel the pesky breeze catching at the hair on the nape of his neck.

He rubs at the stiff muscle of his shoulder. He should go get his laundry for extra layers to stave off the cold but it is three floors away. Jaskier misses the warmth of summer, camping out with only an old blanket and still being warm enough. He misses the huge fires in his bedroom in Cintra’s fallen castle and the warmth of sharing a drink with his family.

Those wounds are still fresh. Sometimes he almost forgets that they’re all dead. Being away from them for part of the year wasn’t an unusual occurrence. He’ll remember at the most random moments that he and Ciri are at Kaer Morhen because they’re the last ones left.

Mousesack, Eist, Calanthe, all gone without even a chance to say goodbye. He never got the chance to mourn properly. Ciri neither. She must miss them twice as much as him, saw the horrors herself, and she’s one of the most joyous presences in the keep. He has no idea how she manages.

He’s startled by a knock at his door. “I brought your clothes,” Geralt says when he opens the door and hands over a pile of laundry.

Jaskier is stunned into silence as he takes the neatly folded clothes. Geralt never folded clothes, nor did he bring them all the way to his room. “You folded them?”

“I know you don’t like them getting creased.”

It’s still weird talking to Geralt as if everything’s fine. It should be fine, they’re not arguing anymore, but Jaskier still tenses when he sees him. A spike of anger, followed by sad bitterness. “Oh, thank you,” he hugs the clothes to his chest in an self-comforting motion. “Anything else you wanted?” he doesn’t mean to sound so cold and dismissive. He should be doing his part to work towards fixing everything between them but every time he sees Geralt he’s thrown back.

“No, that’s all. Have a good evening.”

Jaskier stays holding the clothes long after Geralt leaves. It is no extraordinary act of kindness but it’s still more than he’s come to expect. He makes his feet move to put away his clothes. He pulls on a freshly cleaned thick woollen jumper and sighs at the added warmth. It’s an old jumper, as all of his borrowed clothes are, worn in, soft and loose threads, and incredibly comfy.

He settles back at his desk and tugs at a thread on the sleeve of the jumper lightly. He isn’t sure if they gave much thought to the old clothes they gave him when he arrived. They were mostly ones dug up from the back of old wardrobes, the Witchers all had new clothes. Jaskier knows where this jumper came from, or rather who, because he remembers being here as Julian and seeing Geralt wear it.

It’s a little oversized on him but not by much. He hasn’t hd a chance to wear it since regaining his memories. Jaskier thinks he should probably be hesitant to wear it now that he knows the original owner, but he can’t bring himself too. It’s not just because it’s cosy, but, strangely, he likes the fact that it was Geralt’s and from a time when they had been in love.

* * *

This is the first time in a while he’s stayed up this late. Jaskier has been enjoying getting his well-needed rest and catching up on all his lost sleep. Tonight, however, sleep won’t take him and he’s been composing a new song. A more light-hearted melody than the recent songs and he only realises how late it is when the room is plunged into darkness by his candle burning out.

Jaskier fumbles around in the dark for another candle, a little moonlight from the window seeps into the room casting reflections of light on the flat planes of his desk. He squints as he grabs a match and lights it, careful not to accidentally burn himself, and lights the new candle.

His stomach rumbles and he realises it must have been hours since supper. His room is already cold from the draft, it will be colder in the hallway where various holes and cracks in the walls create a vicious airflow. Still, he dares to risk it.

Barefoot, he creeps out of his room as quiet as he can, hissing at the sting of cold stone on his feet. Kaer Morhen is always eerily quiet at night, in the day he can always hear someone sparring or distant chatter, but at night it’s silent.

Which is why he’s surprised to see candles on in the kitchen and Geralt sat at the table with a drink. He pauses in the doorway, “Sorry, I came for a midnight snack,” he explains himself. He wonders if it’s too late to turn back and leave Geralt to his peace and quiet.

Geralt waves at the pantry and Jaskier quickly makes his way to it. He feels guilty at being caught getting food when their winter supply must surely be running low. There’s still a few months left until spring and it’s his own fault for not waiting until a shared mealtime. His mouth waters at the reserves of cured meats, pickled vegetables, and sweet treats that Vesemir has been baking. Jaskier reminds himself that he is a guest here, he can’t take without reason, so instead gets a small chunk of bread and a bit of cheese. Enough to stop the rumbling of his stomach.

He’s acutely aware of Geralt behind him. It’s only rare occasions where they are left alone together and he isn’t sure how to act. Whether to avoid him, be distant or try and fall back into whatever obscure friendship they had before.

“Would you like a drink?” Geralt offers and Jaskier looks around at him. He could leave, he wants to, just to be safe in his room where he doesn’t have to think about Geralt.

But they both need to make an effort to resolve what went wrong, “Sure.”

He joins him at the table and Geralt pours him a glass. From the strong smell alone he knows it’s the Witcher’s alcohol he had mistakenly drunk. He sips and grimaces at the taste, now that he’s not emotionally distraught and looking to get drunk it’s much less appealing.

Jaskier nibbles at his food, unsure if he should strike up a conversation. It had been so easy to fill the silences when they travelled together. It was second nature to chat idly to Geralt, getting him to pitch in every now and then. Now, he’s hyper-aware of all of his actions in front of the man.

With each joke he’ll crack with one of the others, every chord strummed loud enough to carry down the hall, every downturn of an offer to spar, he questions whether this was what made Geralt dislike him in the first place. If these small things that made him softer, louder, than the last times were the unforgivable thing that meant he wasn’t deserving of love.

He hates that being around Geralt makes him question who he is. He hates that he can’t accept his apology and move on.

Thankfully, his snack is finished and he swallows the last gulp of the drink. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Goodnight,” Geralt says softly.

Jaskier nods awkwardly, “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Sleep well,” Geralt calls after him.

Jaskier gives him a little wave from the doorway and heads back to his room as fast as he can. He doesn’t know why he dwells so much, why he can’t let go and start afresh.

* * *

“You don’t train with us anymore,” Ciri complains, flopped back on Jaskier’s bed and plucking randomly at the lute. He remembers when she was only a toddler and plucked so hard the strings threatened to snap and is grateful that he’s managed to teach her well enough that the music comes out airy and light.

“I don’t need to,” he reminds, the motions of sword fighting all too familiar now. Along with the muscle memory of fighting comes the guilt of the war. It turns his gut to pick up a sword again after that, he’d not been entirely comfortable with it before his memories came back but it was doubley so now.

Ciri huffs and sits up, “Yeah, but now I’m the only one learning,” she strops.

Jaskier laughs, “You’re always going to be leaning. And you can’t be good at something you only practice for three months.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, “Yes, I can.”

“Oh really?” he raises an eyebrow, knowing full well the extent of her progress with both sword and magic. An improvement since she started, of course, but nowhere close to being a master of either art.

“Mhm,” she nods stubbornly. He shoots her a look and she rolls her eyes, “Ugh, fine, it’s just not as fun when I’m the only one learning.”

Jaskier does feel a bit bad at leaving her to conquer it on her own. “How about I join you tomorrow?” he offers. He usually comes down to watch when he isn’t busy writing music, but he can join to make Ciri happy and brush up on his skills. After all, he doesn’t want to be caught out if they suddenly get attacked.

She perks up, “Really?”

“You know I can’t say no to you,” he rolls his eyes fondly, “Now, come on, show me some scales.”

* * *

He helps clean up after dinner, stuffed full from the boar Lambert had gone out to hunt that they all feasted on. Jaskier yawns as he makes his way to his room, looking forward to an early night. “Jaskier!” someone calls behind him and he sees Geralt jogging to catch up to him. “I found this for you,” he says and hands him an old sheet of paper.

It’s browned and nearly falling apart. With confusion, he unfolds the parchment to see that it’s sheet music. It takes a moment for his brain to register that Geralt is actively giving him music to play. “Where did you find this?”

“The library. It’s older than me, I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“Older than us, you mean,” he quips without thinking. He’s slowly come to terms with having a conscious that was born in 1032, two years before Geralt was born. He isn’t sure if the joke is his own or something he remembers from Dandelion, when he had regularly boasted the extra two years as a profound marker of maturity and skill over Geralt. He supposes the distinction shouldn’t matter, he and Dandelion are one and the same after all, but it still startles him to have small things such as this resurface.

“You have a new body, doesn’t count,” Geralt shakes his head, eyes lighting up with humour. Jaskier’s heart rate picks up at being the cause, it’s been so long since he was.

“Does too.”

Geralt hums in amusement. It’s weird talking like this. It goes beyond the polite acknowledgements they’ve mostly kept to so far. Almost like what they used to have when they would run from towns laughing and making fun of lords. Jaskier hadn’t realised how much he missed it until this small taste. The fact that he’s missed it so much reminds him just as to why. His mood sours a little, as it always does when he thinks about it all, but the emotions don’t come as strong. “Thanks for the music. I’ll go play it,” he dismisses himself before he can become too uncomfortable and makes his way back to his room.

Jaskier stares at the old music sheet for a long time in puzzlement. It’s laid on his bed in front of him while Jaskier tries to figure out just what it means. Geralt hadn’t just given him music, he’d gone specifically out of his way to give him music.

It hasn’t escaped his notice that Geralt is being uncharacteristically nice to him lately. Well, Geralt has always had such a capacity for generosity he just never showed it to Jaskier. It must be a way to make up for everything and try to earn his forgiveness. He appreciates it but it still leaves him baffled. There’s no sweeping gestures, just small acts of service that could just as easily be left.

In all honesty, he hadn’t expected such a drastic change. Part of him feels like it’s a ruse, that just when he starts to get used to it Geralt will go back to how he used to.

Jaskier guiltily plucks at his lute, transposing the piano music into string arrangements as he goes. He shouldn’t mistrust Geralt’s acts of kindness. He knows full well that the man is capable of consistently treating others in such a way. And he had promised to make it up to him.

The music is very outdated both in terms of how the music flows and the lyrics written alongside it. He fetches his quill and begins to make some updates – making certain parts faster or adding flourish, swapping out lines that are now very insensitive. After a few hours he’s made it into a half-way decent piece, not anything he’d play to a crowd but much better than the piece that had been sitting at the back of Kaer Morhen’s library for centuries.

Perhaps it’s because he has first-hand experience of music trends some two hundred years ago that make it easier to update work. The song is older than even that but Jaskier knows how music has changed and developed and it comes second nature to him. As he practices the piece his mind drifts to his playing in the past.

Somehow, he’d always got his hands on a lute and wound up as a bard. He wonders if that is something that is intrinsically part of him or his own spontaneous choice each time. Or was it owed to Dandelion, and the few happy memories of his mother sparking love of the lute, that had merely carried over into Buttercup and gained traction with each life.

Jaskier’s fingers work quick over the strings and relaxes when he realises that his interest in the lute must have been his own choice. Some of his traits may have been influenced by his past self but the dedication needed to learn the lute wasn’t something reliant on some version of him buried too deep to remember.

Even when he connects parts of himself to the past there are new caveats that he’d never had before. He’d be lying if he didn’t resent his past selves sometimes, they had been better than him, worthy of love, he doesn’t feel he lives up to them in comparison. But, he’s starting to accept them. Whether he likes it or not their past is now his past. The lines grow blurrier with each day, the distinction growing more arbitrary as the different faces of him merge.

Thankfully, he is still very much Jaskier. Apart from a few new life experiences to influence his world view his personality is the same. His past incarnations becoming an accepted part of him but a part of his past, not taking over his present.

For that he is grateful, because he doesn’t think he would be able to handle it if he changed who he was and Geralt loved him again. He bites his lip as he looks at the old music sheet. Geralt was trying for him, for _Jaskier_ , or so he hopes.

An annoying part of remembering is with the sudden flood of memories he brain thinks he has recently been in love with Geralt. The parts of him that belong to the others scream to forgive, to see the value of these small actions. He can’t listen to them. It would only cause him pain to forgive Geralt when he is still hurt, because it wouldn’t be truly forgiving him at all.

* * *

Jaskier swirls the wine around his glass with a sigh. It’s much better than the usual wine stored at the castle, this was something Yennefer had cracked open for the two of them and he doesn’t ask where she got it. He’s verging on drunk, vision hazy and head heavy.

“Have you forgiven him, Yen?” he asks rather glumly, holding his head up in his hand.

She curves an eyebrow upwards, “Who?” she asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

“Geralt.”

“Yes,” she admits, “The wish has already been made. We’re not using each other anymore. We have Ciri to look after now. If I can find a way to undo it I will but the wish isn’t changing how we live, there’s no point in being angry about it.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Isn’t it?” she scrunches her nose up, “When I was at Sodden, I thought about all the terrible things people had said and done to me. Geralt didn’t even cross my mind. Why waste my time holding a grudge?”

Jaskier wishes Geralt didn’t cross his mind. In fact, he crosses it constantly. Even when he isn’t thinking about their current circumstances and is trying to sort out his mess of memories Geralt is a part of them. Geralt is woven into every aspect of him, which was making it quite impossible to forget about him. With every appearance in his mind his heart hurts at what once was and what could have been if only he’d been enough.

The only way to remedy that is to come to terms with it all, forgive Geralt for his wrongdoings and move on. It was easier said than done to make yourself forgive someone.

“You’re clearly not asking after mine and Geralt’s relationship for my well being,” Yennefer points out. “If you must unleash your woes on someone, go ahead, but make it quick.”

“I want to forgive him,” he starts, taking a long gulp of wine. “I just, it’s hard, every time he does something nice to me I’m reminded of all the shit stuff he did. I wasn’t good enough to deserve it all before, he’s probably just doing it out of guilt.”

Yennefer doesn’t bother to hide her eye roll, “Even if he is doing it out of guilt doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean it.”

“When he stops feeling guilty he’ll go back to treating me the same.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, why wouldn’t he?”

Yennefer heaves a large sigh and leans closer to him, “Did he apologise for what he did.”

“Yes.”

“Did he realise he was doing wrong before?”

“No,” Jaskier mutters bitterly, still unsure how Geralt could be so oblivious to how much he was hurting him.

“But he does now.”

“I suppose.”

“And is he capable of being nice more often than not?”

For the first time, he doesn’t think of Geralt’s loving nature towards Yennefer, Ciri and his family. He thinks of all the love Geralt had shown him in his past lives. He thinks of Geralt patching up the manticore wound on his leg, bodyguarding him at Cintra, paying for their room and board after a hunt. “Yes,” he breathes.

Yennefer leans back, “So, why wouldn’t he start being nicer to you permanently?” she says with a certain flourish that shows she believes her point is proven.

The logic makes sense and Jaskier reluctantly accepts it. It still doesn’t stop the small voice of doubt in his mind that tells him it’s wrong. Because he’s never been worthy of people's love for more than a fleeting moment, so why should it be any different now? Ciri is the longest anyone has wanted him around but she’s still young, in a few years she’ll outgrow him like everyone else.

He thinks about what Yennefer said about Sodden. In the face of everything else, Geralt was hardly impactful. Jaskier would be a liar if he said Geralt hurting him was hardly a blip on his radar. However, after the mountain, he had moved on. Losing everyone from Cintra, being forced to work for the RSS and having his entire life change in the course of a few months had topped any grief he felt from Geralt.

Maybe he was focussing too much on the past. Neither of them could go back and fix it. All that mattered was the future and what they make of it.

* * *

After the morning training session, Ciri had dragged him off to practice some magic. Both to show off what she had learnt and to practice without the critical eye of Yennefer. She was a great mage and teacher but Jaskier knows Ciri feels a little embarrassed at not being at the same level as her yet, much the same as swords with the Witchers. He understands and is more than happy to help her practice and not judge when she fumbles, because he can’t due to the complete lack of chaos within him.

She takes him to one of the old towers still in need of repair and begins to levitate old bricks and whatever is lying around. Jaskier sits on the dusty floor and wraps his arms around himself, half the wall is missing and the wind is strong. His neck aches at the cold and he can’t stop thinking about Geralt asking about it.

He’d noticed that he was in pain and seemed to actually care. Jaskier knows he shouldn’t be surprised, Geralt has been much more considerate to him. He’ll admit that the man is making a real effort to make amends and isn’t something he seems to be giving up on.

Ciri puts her hand out and a pile of frozen snow by the broken wall begins to melt into a ball of water that she slowly begins to make into half-formed shapes. She can’t hold it for long and it drops and splatters to the floor. “Damn it,” she whispers to herself.

Jaskier doesn’t reprimand her for the language. Geralt had tried to keep her from cursing in any way when they first arrived but being surrounded by Witchers quickly undid that. And Jaskier will admit he’s not been the best influence on that front in all her years.

“That was amazing,” he grins at her, applauding.

“I couldn’t hold it,” she sighs.

“You still held it, you’ll get better with each time. I can’t do anything like that. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Ciri chews her lip and nods hesitantly. He encourages her to keep going and she slowly cycles through what she’s learnt. He’s so proud of how far she’s come. He never thought he’d see her learn magic and here she is doing it with relative ease.

They stay until it gets too cold and when Jaskier returns to his room he yelps in surprise to see Geralt in there. “What are you doing in here?”

Geralt is on the opposite side of the room, kneeling on the floor, “Fixing your draft.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” he stutters out, watching Geralt go back to fixing the draft. He feels both grateful and incredibly shocked. He sits on his bed and grabs his lute so he has something to do.

He finds himself playing the music Geralt found for him. His mind races with questions as to why Geralt is doing this for him without asking. Part of him knows why - because Geralt does care about him.

“That was the song you found for me. With some modernisation, it was very outdated,” he explains when the song comes to a close. He realises that Geralt has been doing most of the work at repairing their friendship and it’s his duty to try as well.

“You liked it?”

“Not bad for a song found in a Witcher’s library,” he teases lightly.

He keeps plucking, one of his old songs but he doesn’t sing. Geralt had always complained about his singing so no reason to piss him off while he was doing a nice thing for him. To his surprise, Geralt looks up and asks, “You’re not singing?”

“You wouldn’t mind?” he asks tentatively. Playing was only half as fun when he couldn’t sing.

“No, I like your singing.”

His fingers spasm in shock, “What?”

“I like your singing. You know I’ve always liked it.”

Jaskier hums in disbelief and goes to argue but is flooded with memories of his past self. Geralt showering him in compliments for his singing, requesting him to sing, and being the reason he had enough confidence to be a bard in the first place. He swallows his argument and begins to sing, trying not to look at Geralt to see his reaction to his voice in light of this new information.

“All done,” Geralt declares after the song is over and stands.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he gives him a smile, his first real smile for him in a long time.

Geralt smiles back, “Any time.” He leaves, the door closing softly behind him and Jaskier collapses backwards onto his bed.

He’s been thinking over Yennefer’s words for days and realises that she’s right. There’s no point in holding onto a grudge from the past when Geralt is doing everything in his power to change. They have a new start and, while Jaskier still feels raw about the whole thing, he thinks that he might soon be able to forgive Geralt for it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand we're finally healing and officially back in Soft territory! let me know what you thought of this chapter!!
> 
> also, seeing as we’re getting closer to the end of this I wanted to ask a quick question. As you can see there’s 27 chapters planned, the 27th is planned as an epilogue from Geralt’s POV meaning we wouldn’t see Jaskier’s perspective of what happens in that chapter. Idk if that’s what you guys want so here’s the options I’m thinking and, if you could, tell me which you’d prefer?
> 
> A- Keep the 27th as Geralt POV, nothing bad/misunderstanding happens so nothing would be much different from Jaskier’s POV so it isn't needed  
> B- Add a 28th chapter for Jaskier’s POV  
> C- Split the chapter half-way and switch POV’s so they’re both covered in one chapter but are two distinct POV’s  
> D- Mildly change the approach (sorry for the English lesson). I currently write in 3rd person limited which means you only hear the POV characters thoughts/feelings in their respective chapters, I could take a step back to 3rd person omniscient wherein the thoughts/feelings of both are shown at the same time
> 
> Personally, I’m leaning towards options A or D but id like to know which you all would like! Thank you! <33


	25. looking properly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost posted within a week! 8 days later ain't bad! and prepare yourselves for sO much fluff
> 
> (also i want to clarify that it hasn't been a sudden three month time jump since the last chapter like the opening line suggests, bc the post-argument half of ch24 takes place over abt 2 months but I realise I didn't really put any time stamps in when I wrote that part, my bad)
> 
> hope you enjoy and thank you to everyone who's still reading and reviewing <3

It’s been about three months since Geralt promised to do better. In that time, he has put all of his effort into being as considerate as possible towards Jaskier and the others. He’ll admit it’s been much easier to live like this than it had been to try and push him away.

There’s no secrets, no fear. He’s working to be a good friend and fix his mistakes. It’s something he should have done from the start so they never got into this mess. He can’t change what he’s done, but he can do his best to make sure he doesn’t slip and put his own feelings before Jaskier’s again.

They’re both on washing up duty tonight. Geralt washing the plates used at supper clean and passing them off to Jaskier to dry. Jaskier is singing an old sea shanty work song as they work to make the time pass faster. On the fifteenth repeat of the verse with only a minor change that Jaskier improvises each time Geralt thinks his ears might give out.

Not because the singing is bad, or even the song, but because if he hears the phrase ‘what will we do with a drunken sailor’ he might scream.

“And, what will we do-”

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt interrupts.

Jaskier stops and looks over at him. “Hmm?”

“Can you sing something else?” he asks as nicely as possible, but it’s impossible to keep the weariness from his voice. Jaskier’s eyes go a little wide and his stance falters. Instantly, he regrets it. “Shit, sorry. You don’t have to. You can continue.”

Jaskier is silent and Geralt’s heart weighs heavy. Even when he’s trying to be nice he can’t. He hands the next soapy plate off to Jaskier, not daring to look up and see the damage he’s caused.

“I forgive you, you know,” Jaskier blurts.

Geralt snaps his head up and Jaskier ducks his own sheepishly. “You do?” his voice wavers. It feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over his head. He never thought he would be granted Jaskier’s forgiveness, not for a long time. He thinks his ears are deceiving him.

Jaskier nods, eyes glued to the plate he’s drying. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And I spoke to Yennefer about it. I understand why you did it all, and it’s in the past. You’ve changed. I don’t want to hold onto a grudge, life’s too short.” He looks up again and Geralt can see the truth in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

Jaskier gives him a small but genuine smile, “I’d rather be here and look after Ciri with you as friends than have us tiptoe around each other.”

Geralt nods eagerly, anything Jaskier is willing to give him, “I’d like to be your friend.”

“Me too.”

* * *

Geralt takes a steadying breath before he joins Jaskier at the library table. The bard looks up and gives him a smile which he returns and stares at the lore book he has chosen. It’s more nerve-wracking than he had anticipated, being explicitly allowed in his life. Just sharing a table is suddenly thrown into a new light.

He’s allowed to be here. Jaskier doesn’t want him to leave. Still, the age-old tightness in his gut rears it’s head as he wonder if that’s true. Jaskier may have forgiven him but Geralt can’t shake the feeling of being unwanted. The feeling that he’s intruding.

It’s different from being around him. When he was working to earn Jaskier’s forgiveness he had a goal, a need to right a wrong and do everything in his power to make Jaskier happy. Now that forgiveness has been granted he feels lost. That’s not to say he’ll stop his efforts to be more courteous in any way shape or form, but he hadn’t been expecting forgiveness.

They were truly equals now, neither of them holding any sort of power over the other. Geralt still feels like he owes so much to Jaskier, and surely the man must see that too, whether he acknowledges it or not.

“Haven’t you memorised that all by now?” Jaskier asks, shaking him from his line of thought.

“Need to keep my knowledge up to date.”

“As if you don’t know everything already,” Jaskier snorts, scribbling at his journal.

Geralt debates whether he should ask what he’s writing. He takes too long to decide and thinks it would be too sudden to ask now. He buries his head in the pages of the chapter on noon wraiths and tries his best not to pay attention to Jaskier. He can hear every breath, every movement as he shifts in his chair, hears the barely there humming under his breath.

Maybe he didn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe he wanted the peace of the library to compose. Geralt glances at the door and considers if it’s been too short of a time before he can leave. He’s only just got Jaskier’s forgiveness he doesn’t want to ruin it by pushing for too much too soon.

Jaskier looks up again, “Actually, now that you’re here, what’s it like fighting a leshen? I was going to spend my afternoon trying to find something in here but you’ll probably be a better source.”

Geralt tilts his head to the side, “Planning on fighting a leshen?”

Jaskier sends him an exasperated look, “Of course not. I’m writing a song, need inspiration and facts to inform my future audiences.”

His brain stops working for a moment. If Jaskier is writing about fighting monsters then he is most certainly writing about Witchers again. He thinks back to the song he sang about made-up monsters in Posada, but that had been the only song Geralt had heard on his repertoire that had gone without a mention of him. “You’re singing about Witchers again?” he asks tentatively, not wanting to ask if Jaskier is singing about him specifically. There are three other Witchers in the keep for inspiration.

“Well, you are my muse,” Jaskier says as if it’s obvious. As if he didn’t stop singing about Witchers after the mountain.

Geralt’s heart jolts, “Am I still?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Oh,” he whispers, fiddling with the corner of his page. “Um, leshens are a difficult hunt. They can manipulate the nature around them to make them hard to get to, but they’re susceptible to fire. Their back is the most vulnerable,” he lists off the basics when his mind catches up to Jaskier’s original question.

Jaskier hums and begins to run through a series of rhymes. Geralt watches him for a moment, the familiar sight of him composing and shifting through words until he finds the right one, tongue stuck out in concentration. He tears his eyes away and to the old faded scratch of notes on noon wraiths.

They each work in comfortable silence. The afternoon stretches on slowly and the twist in Geralt’s gut begins to relax. It’s a new familiarity; so dissimilar to the old way they would share company, and yet still enjoyable. This time there’s no secrets - something they’ve never had, even before Jaskier. It’s honest, and Geralt is looking forward to the trust he hopes they can build again.

* * *

Geralt clenches his fist and relaxes it around his sword handle several times as he waits for Jaskier to join him. They haven’t sparred together all winter, Jaskier choosing others to practice with instead. He wonders if they’ll still be an equal match as they once were, moving in tandem with one another without needed to think. Or maybe it will be different sparring with Jaskier. He doesn’t know what to expect.

“Ready?” he asks somewhat gruffly.

Jaskier nods and settles into a good stance. They start slow, it’s still early and they’re testing the waters. Jaskier’s attacks and defences aren’t as smooth as they once were, this body not used to such an art. Nevertheless, he still has the knowledge to keep up with Geralt.

He doesn’t have to give any pointers, just works them up to a faster level. “You still doing fine?” he asks when they cross swords after sparring for nearly half an hour.

“Why? You tired?” Jaskier quips, moving faster than Geralt had expected and he only just blocks in time.

Jaskier is breathing heavy but shows no sign of stopping. “Tired of sub-par sparring,” Geralt goads, only after the words come out realising they may be too harsh. He didn’t mean anything against Jaskier, it was purely just how they all baited each other during training. Still, he knows he should be more considerate with what he says to Jaskier, after everything, what is a harmless comment for him might begin the cycle anew.

His grip on his sword falters and Jaskier seizes the opportunity to attack, slipping past his defences. He lands a hit against his shoulder and nearly knocks his sword out of his grip with that neat old trick he’d known since Dandelion, but this time Geralt manages to swivel out of the way and keep a grip of his sword.

“Your own sub-par sparring, I think you mean,” Jaskier grins wolfishly.

Geralt growls and doubles his efforts. He tries his best not to be distracted by Jaskier’s thin shirt sticking to his skin from sweat and showing off the ripple of muscles underneath. They cross swords and push against each other.

Neither back away and Geralt steadies his legs out behind him to hold his weight against Jaskier’s force. Jaskier’s arms begin to shake a little from the effort and Geralt quirks an eyebrow, “Had enough?”

“Never,” Jaskier bites, his arms promptly giving out. Geralt doesn’t retract his weight in time and they both go tumbling over. Jaskier falls backwards with Geralt on top and their two swords, thankfully blunt training swords, in the middle of them.

He manages to catch himself on his hands so his full body weight doesn’t crush Jaskier but he’s still leaning over him. He backs away as soon as he’s stable and Jaskier sits up hissing and rubbing the back of his head.

“You okay?” he asks, moving the two swords out of the way. His hand goes to the back of Jaskier's head, their fingers brushing as Geralt inspects the hit.

Eskel and Ciri had been training on the other side of the hall and have stopped what they’re doing and start walking over.

Jaskier nods with a wince, “Yeah, you just owe me a new skull.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Geralt agrees easily and Jaskier snickers.

Geralt pulls his hand away, there’s no blood but he reckons there’ll be a bump sooner rather than later.

“Jas, what happened? Are you okay?” Ciri asks when she gets close, fretting over him.

“I’m alright,” he assures, waving her off. “Just out of practice. I used to be able to beat Geralt.”

Ciri looks between them disbelievingly, “Really?”

Jaskier smiles widely, “I did, isn’t that right?” he looks up at Geralt expectantly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he denies.

“It’s true,” Eskel confirms with a smug smile. Jaskier lets out a triumphant noise and Eskel turns back to him, “Back when you actually picked up a sword before you were forty.”

Jaskier’s smile turns aghast at Eskel’s betrayal. He looks at Geralt for back up but he merely grins and turns to Ciri, “Which means he won’t ever beat me now.”

Ciri nods sombrely and instantly accepts this as fact. Jaskier lets out an affronted gasp and scrabbles to his feet, “I’ll have you all know I’m well adept with a sword I just prefer not to use it.”

“Of course,” Geralt agrees with mock seriousness.

Jaskier lunges at him and Geralt ducks down to wrap his arms around his waist and hoists him up onto his shoulder and spins him around. Jaskier yells out and tries to scrabble out of his grasp whilst Ciri chokes on laughter. Geralt loses his grip and Jaskier slips to the side sending them both tumbling to the floor once again.

Faster than Geralt can think, Jaskier is on top of him and pinning his arms down. Ciri jumps on Jaskier’s back and Geralt huffs at the added weight. “I’m being attacked,” Jaskier yells, releasing Geralt and standing up with Ciri still clinging to his back.

He spins them around whilst Ciri screams in delight until even Geralt gets dizzy looking at them. Eskel helps him to his feet and when Jaskier stops spinning and wobbles dangerously, Geralt reaches out to steady him and Ciri hops off.

She demands more piggybacks and Eskel is her victim.

Jaskier groans and grips his stomach, “Mistakes were made.” Geralt snickers and Jaskier shoves him lightly, there’s no anger and a smile plays at his lips. “This is your fault.”

“I don’t think so,” he smirks.

Jaskier scoffs but smiles wider. Geralt’s heart flutters at the sight and he quickly looks away at where Eskel is carrying Ciri around the training yard. Friends. Just friends.

* * *

Yennefer places the enchanted music box on the table, the lever on the side begins to wind round and a classical dancing song begins to ring out in the main hall echoing off the tall ceilings. She takes Vesemir’s hand and he leads her to the centre of the room, looking mildly displeased at being outed that he knows how to dance. They make a surprisingly graceful pair as they circle the room.

Ciri tugs at Eskel and cajoles him to join them. He doesn’t know the moves but Ciri makes a valiant attempt to teach him the steps.

“Absolutely not,” Lambert swears several times that he won’t be dragged into the dance.

Geralt glances at Jaskier who is stood with them at the side of the hall and catches the look of longing on his face. It’s been nearly a year since the bard has been at any court to indulge in dancing.

He clears his throat, “Do you want to,” he gestures vaguely at the others dancing.

“Uh, what- you mean- um, you don’t have to,” Jaskier stammers.

“I don’t mind,” he insists as casually as possible.

Jaskier considers for a moment and nods. Geralt lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and they step out to the makeshift dance space. They stand facing each other, suddenly the air filled with awkward tension.

Geralt reaches out and puts his right hand lightly on Jaskier’s waist and Jaskier’s left hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. They hold hands with the other, palms pressed together. Their touches are so light he can barely feel the pressure and as much distance between them as possible. Thankfully, Jaskier knows the steps and guides them to move in time because Geralt’s brain isn’t working.

He’s struck by the memory of dancing with Julian at court, pulling him close to the horror of everyone in attendance. Dancing outside a tavern with Buttercup, gently swaying together. His fingers twitch against Jaskier’s side, wanting to hold him tighter, move closer but he keeps his hands respectably where they are.

The song comes to an end and Geralt thinks they'll stop but it easily segues into another song, the notches still winding round the music box no longer matching the notes ringing out. The sound is tinny, especially in the large hall, but Geralt is nonetheless impressed by the enchantment. It’s strange to be dancing in here, when it has been used as a training yard for so long and a dining hall before that. He doesn’t have much time to dwell because the next song is faster.

Jaskier easily changes their movements to match the new beat. Geralt trips over his feet several times, sending him forward so his chest bumps against Jaskier’s. He mumbles his apologies and steps back each time it happens.

He glances over, Yennefer and Vesemir are still dancing perfectly in time, Ciri is having an even harder time teaching Eskel this dance; who, thankfully, looks just as bad at this as he is. He looks back at Jaskier and finds him already looking at him. His heart skips a beat and Jaskier ducks his head.

Geralt trips over his own feet again, this time Jaskier’s hands grip him tighter and keep him in place so he can’t move away. It feels unbearably hot all of a sudden. “Sorry,” he mutters, frowning and looks at his feet to make sure he steps in time with Jaskier.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jaskier replies softly, his voice low in his ear.

Geralt dares to hold a bit firmer on his waist, hand going around to the small of Jaskier’s back. The song changes to a slower one and he relaxes; however, without being able to concentrate on the steps, all he can think about is Jaskier.

Over his shoulder he catches Eskel’s relief as he sways and spins Ciri around and her giggles echo off the walls. Eskel crouches down nearly in half so that he can spin under her arm and Lambert wolf whistles from the side. Yennefer calls out a cutting remark and Geralt subconsciously pulls Jaskier a fraction closer.

Jaskier’s hair is dusting across his cheek and it takes all of Geralt’s restraint not to cross the small distance and press their foreheads together.

The music changes again and Jaskier pulls away much to Geralt’s disappointment. He quickly finds out that this dance is a group one. Lambert gets pulled in to join them and the Witchers hopelessly try to learn the dance.

He can’t keep track of who should be passed to who and who should move where. It’s calamity. Even the half of them that know the dance can’t do it right when the three youngest Witchers crash into each other.

“No, like this,” Ciri laughs, holding Geralt’s arm out to where it should apparently be and kicking out her feet. He chuckles as he tries to replicate, wildly out of time with the music and everyone else.

“This is ridiculous,” Lambert gripes as Jaskier repeats the dance move flawlessly in front of him over and over in an attempt to coax him into copying.

Geralt looks at the people gathered in this room, his family, he never thought he would have anything like this. Julian’s time at Kaer Morhen had come close, and his brothers had always been there for him, but this is different. He has everyone he's ever loved close, safe, and happy.

* * *

Geralt leans back against the wall to the main hall watching Ciri’s sword movements with a critical eye. She’s come a long way since she started to train and he couldn’t be prouder. It weighs heavy on his heart that this is something she must learn for her own survival rather than out of interest but for now she is safe. He remembers over a century ago training young Witchers and hoping that he would never bring a child to undergo that; now here he is training Ciri, but it’s some consolation that the trials are something she will never endure.

Vesemir barks commands at her, meeting her sword blows and going easier than he ever did on them as children but harsher than he usually is to Ciri. When they’re not training the old man spends his time reading in back corners of the library or baking bread and treats from their flour reserves. When he trains he reverts back to a drillmaster, it’s easy to see how the man has survived as long as he has and Geralt is glad that his teaching only spurs Ciri on. Every flaw corrected setting her jaw and determination harder.

He’s hyper-aware of Jaskier next to him. A few centimetres distance between them feels like nothing at all, he can feel the heat radiating from him, and like miles at the same time. Long gone are the days where he could casually touch, brush up against him, but he’s grateful he can still be this close.

“I can hear you thinking,” Jaskier turns his head to look at him. A knowing smile quirking at the corner of his lips. Even now the bard can still read him like an open book.

“Just thinking about Ciri,” he mumbles, trying his best to speak his mind and not resort to acknowledging hums. “And when I used to train Witchers.”

Something flashes across Jaskier’s face too fast for him to catch, it looks akin to pity but he knows it isn’t. Sombre understanding, perhaps. “She wants to be here, you know?” Jaskier says lowly.

Clashes of metal against metal, Vesemir’s voice rings through the room alongside Ciri’s grunts and yells. “She doesn’t have a choice,” he sighs.

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it,” Jaskier shakes his head. Geralt is reminded that Jaskier has known Ciri for much longer than he has and knows her better. Not for the first time he regrets his own stubbornness for never returning to Cintra – even once a year to check in. “You remember Calanthe. Ciri wanted to learn how to fight like she did. If she didn’t want to learn you’d know, trust me,” he huffs a laugh.

“I trust you,” he says without thinking, locking eyes. Jaskier’s blue eyes gaze into his own and Geralt doesn’t dare breathe.

Jaskier breaks away first and ducks his head. He looks back up at the ceiling and blows up at his fringe which flops over his eyes. It’s gotten longer than he’s ever let it fall in this lifetime. Geralt watches as he reaches up a hand to tug at a piece with a critical eye.

“Need a haircut?”

Jaskier nods, “Desperately. Look at these split ends. Know any barbers up here?”

Geralt smirks, “They don’t tend to come up the mountain.”

“Pity.”

Before Geralt knows it, his mouth is letting out the words, “I could cut it for you, if you want?”

Jaskier looks at him like he just offered to weave him a dress. “What?”

Geralt blushes and looks away, forcing his eyes to stay on Ciri and Vesemir. “I could cut it.”

“I know what your track record of hair cutting looks like,” Jaskier side eyes him. Geralt rolls his eyes knowing he’s referring to the, admittedly, numerous time he’s taken a dagger to his hair. He hadn’t cared for his hair upkeep several times over, but Witcher’s didn’t have the luxury of barbers so he was capable of giving a decent haircut.

“I won’t use a dagger,” he promises.

Jaskier arches an eyebrow, “Oh really. You own a comb and scissors?”

He hums in affirmation.

“Fine,” Jaskier relents, “At least no one is going to be seeing me for a long time.” He pulls at another strand of hair from his fringe, it nearly pulls down to his chin.

Geralt realises that unlike every other summer, Jaskier won’t be performing in taverns. If he means to stay with him and Ciri, which goes without saying, performances would bring too much attention to them. He hadn’t even thought about it but clearly Jaskier already has and has made his peace with it. Despite the mild comfort that if he does mess up the cut he promises to himself to do his best so that at the very least Jaskier won’t be unhappy with it.

* * *

It isn’t until two days later when Geralt and Jaskier finally have free time. They go down to the hot spring baths deep in the heart of Kaer Morhen. Deep pools line the floor, steam rising into the small cavern and the air humid. Before the sacking, he bathed with the other Witchers, always someone soaking in the naturally hot water.

Now it’s empty. It isn’t hard to find solace down here with only seven people in the keep and each person having their own bathtub if they wish to transport the water to the privacy of their room.

“You’ll need to wet your hair,” Geralt says awkwardly. He pulls a stool close to the edge of one of the baths and fiddles about checking the scissors and comb. Behind him, he hears clothes dropping to the floor and the water ripple as Jaskier sinks into the water.

Geralt turns around and sees Jaskier resurface in the middle of the largest bath and wipe at his eyes. He swims up the edge and rests his arms on the edge along the stone floor and gazes up at him. “Where do you want me?”

“On the edge,” he directs, sitting on the stool. Jaskier spins, braces his arms on the floor, and lifts himself up to sit in front of him. His legs are still submerged in the hot water, gently kicking back and forth.

He’s still wearing small clothes around his waist, Geralt notes as he brings the comb to Jaskier’s hair with a shaky hand. He pulls it through his locks as gently as possible, tugging out the tangles at the back and doing his best not to look at the expanse of muscles on his shoulders and back.

“How short do you want it?”

“Just as short as I usually have it.”

Geralt separates a section and runs the comb to the length Jaskier had always worn it at when they travelled together. Carefully, he snips at the hair and the excess length drops down to the floor. With the first cut made, the rest goes easy.

This isn’t the first time he’s cut Jaskier’s hair. Well, it’s the first time he’s cut _Jaskier’s_ hair but he’s done it in for his past incarnations. Julian's when he had got too old to make the trip to the town’s barber. Buttercup's once in a blue moon because he had insisted they needn’t waste coin on a haircut; although most of the time he did it himself. Dandelion's when their coin had run low and he grew fussy with his un-styled hair at the end of the long summer months.

He falls into the familiar routine he hadn’t even realised he’d lost. Jaskier’s hair is soft between his fingers as he slowly works around his head. They don’t speak, they don’t need to, it’s the most comfortable silence they’ve shared in years. Almost in time with the methodical section and snip of his hair, Jaskier shoulders rise and fall with steady breaths.

Subtly, he scents the air and is relieved to find no signs of discomfort or anger. Jaskier begins to hum and Geralt wishes his heart would stop racing. He’s long since accepted that his place in Jaskier’s life is limited to friendship but that doesn’t stop him from loving him.

He cuts the last section and runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, checking the length is all even and shaking out any hair that hadn’t fallen. Jaskier hums and leans slightly back into his touch. Geralt allows himself to linger for a moment before retreating his fingers from his soft hair.

“All done,” he clears his throat. Swiping his hands over Jaskier’s shoulders and upper back to brush off the hair sticking to his skin. His breath hitches at touching his bare skin and quickly pulls back his hands.

Jaskier bends his head so far back it must hurt and looks up at Geralt. “Thank you,” he says gently. He puts his head forward and runs his hand through his hair. He turns around slightly, “Feels perfect,” he grins. Then drops back into the water and submerges in the middle once more.

Geralt sweeps up the fallen hair as Jaskier dunks in and out of the water several times to dislodge all the pesky cut hair sticking to him. When everything is cleaned up he kneels by the side of the bath and dunks his hands into the water to rinse them off.

Jaskier swims over and treads water a small distance away. “You joining me?”

He shakes his head, “I let you bathe in peace,” he says, because he doesn’t think his heart can handle seeing Jaskier in a state of undress swimming around any longer.

“Okay,” Jaskier replies easily, unbothered. Why would he be? They’re just friends. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

Geralt nods with a shy smile and hastily makes his exit.

* * *

He puts away the sword and wipes at the sweat cooling on his face and neck. The snow has mostly melted which means the courtyard can be used for training again but the wind is still cool.

“You’ve been distracted,” Lambert says, tossing him a cloth to clean up with.

“No, I haven’t,” Geralt scowls.

Lambert nods, “Yeah, I won all of those rounds. Which I’ll be adding to my tally, by the way.”

Geralt hums, “So you admit the only way I’d beat you is if I’m distracted?”

Lambert glares, “Fuck off, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sounds like it.”

“For the sake of getting you to sort out your shit, fine let’s say that,” Lambert rolls his eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Blue eyes flash in his mind. “Nothing.”

“Geralt.”

“Nothing,” Geralt insists, but he’s never been able to bullshit Lambert. “Just Jaskier.”

Lambert nods, looking unsurprised. “Well, he’s forgiven you, right? Why worry.”

“I’m not worrying,” Geralt takes a seat on the cold ground, leaning back against the wall of the keep. The sun is setting over the horizons, usually, they train in the morning but sparring with Lambert had been for fun. And to release some tension. “I still love him,” he mutters.

Lambert shrugs easily, “So tell him.”

Geralt shoots him a dubious look, “He just let me back in his life, I’m not going to ruin it.”

“You promised to be honest to him,” Lambert says like it’s easy.

“I promised not to hurt him,” Geralt corrects. Lies had hurt him in the past, but telling Jaskier he loves him would be an added burden their strained relationship doesn’t need. “He doesn’t feel the same, it’s best he doesn’t know.”

Lambert sighs deeply, “It’ll only hurt him in the long run.”

Geralt hopes that’s not true. Telling Jaskier would send them spiralling back to where they used to be. Jaskier would barely tolerate his presence. He wants to be friends and friendship is what Geralt will give to him.

* * *

He sinks back into his chair, his stomach painfully full. Jaskier does the same opposite him. Lambert and Ciri clean up their plates, it’s their turn, while Vesemir, Eskel and Yennefer head to bed. Geralt can feel the call of a good nap after the meal but he’s too full to move just yet.

Eskel had caught an incredibly large turkey and the first sign of spring meant it was cause for a feast. There had always been a grand feast at the end of winter growing up – one last hearty meal before all the Witchers set out on the Path and before the intensity of training increased for the boys. In recent decades, the tradition had filtered away. They’d use up most of their remaining food reserves on the night before they were set to leave but there was never much fuss.

This was different. It was warmer, more homely with them all there. And it felt like the amount of food Geralt had eaten had tripled in size to previous years. It also helped that no one was leaving in the morning, maybe to never return.

It went unsaid that they were staying longer this year. By now Lambert would have packed up and be itching to leave. Eskel might linger longer but once the snows melted they were both gone. Not this year. This year they would stay, for Ciri, for their family. Geralt doesn’t know how long his brothers will remain but he’s grateful for their prolonged stay.

This will be the first summer he’ll spend at Kaer Morhen in a long time. He’s hoping that it will remain safe enough for Ciri, even with the mountain pass not snowed up. Safer than going back on the Path anyway.

His gaze travels over to Jaskier, who will be staying with them. Jaskier’s head is lolled back against the back of his chair and rubs at his stomach, no doubt just as stuffed as he is. The carcass of the turkey sits on the table between them, as much meat torn from the bones as possible.

Slowly, he sits up and reaches for the carcass. He moves the bones around until he finds the one he’s looking for. He removes the wishbone and holds it out across the table towards Jaskier, “Make a wish.”

Jaskier meets his eyes and leans forward, grasping the other end of the wishbone with a firm grip. They tug, the bone snaps between them, Jaskier pulls away the bigger piece.

“Did you make a good one?” he asks quietly, setting aside his side of the wishbone.

“I think so,” Jaskier whispers softly.

* * *

Geralt has lost track of how much they’ve drank. Admittedly it’s more than they should have. His head is heavy and lolling forward, he’s lost more gwent games than he cares to admit and he can’t quite feel all his limbs.

He’s fairly sure he hasn’t been this drunk in over a century. “And then- and then- I jumped,” he slurs.

“Off the roof!” Lambert finishes loudly.

Jaskier’s laughter rings in his ears and he laughs at his own boyhood stupidity. “I would have made it,” he insists.

“If you had the poor horse would have died,” Eskel interjects and Geralt scowls.

“No it wouldn’t.”

Lambert guffaws, “You were trying to land on it’s back!”

Jaskier chokes on his drink between peals of laughter, doubling forward so his head is nearly pillowed in Geralt’s lap. “You didn’t,” he wipes at his eyes in disbelief.

“I didn’t,” Geralt scoffs, “I broke my leg instead.”

That sends all of them into buckets of more laughter and Geralt can’t stop himself from joining in. They’re interrupted by a grumpy looking Vesemir coming into the room, “I think it’s time you lot went to bed. You have training in the morning.”

“Make me,” Lambert says petulantly.

Eskel’s eyes go wide and he jams him in the side with his elbow. It’s like watching them be boys again. Geralt snorts and puts his hand down in his lap; without him realising it, Jaskier has laid his head on his thighs and looks seconds away from passing out.

As Vesemir cajoles Lambert and Eskel into going to bed, Geralt lightly threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair brushing away his fringe. “Time for bed,” he yawns, suddenly overcome with sleepiness himself.

“No,” Jaskier moans, turning over and pressing the side of his face into Geralt’s leg even more.

“We’re-“ Geralt yawns again and the world spins when he shuts his eyes, “We’re on the floor.”

Jaskier hums, “Comfy.”

Geralt is too old to sleep on the stone floor of the small hall. He pats Jaskier’s cheek gently until the bard lifts his head with a glare. He slides out from under him and staggers to his feet. The world lurches and his stomach threatens to empty on the floor but he takes a deep breath to calm his body.

Jaskier squints up at him, “You’re mean,” he complains.

“I know,” Geralt says, offering his hand. Jaskier grabs it and pulls himself up, nearly toppling Geralt over in the process.

Geralt wraps his arm firmly around Jaskier’s waist and Jaskier’s arm goes over his shoulder. Together they begin the long walk back to their rooms, swaying left and right and crashing into walls as they go.

“Shhhh,” Jaskier giggles as they knock into another wall, sending vibrations through the wall.

“You shush,” Geralt retorts. Jaskier shushes him again so Geralt shushes him louder until they are both trying to shush the other as they walk.

They make it to the stairs and Jaskier lets out a loud groan. He nearly slips from Geralt’s grasp as he tries to sit on the first step, “Just leave me here,” he yawns, “I won’t make it.”

“Not leaving you,” Geralt manages to hoist him up again and they begin the slow climb upstairs.

The hall their rooms are on is nearly in sight, only one corner left to turn, when Geralt hiccups.

Jaskier stops in his tracks and laughs loudly, Geralt urges them forward and hiccups again. This makes Jaskier laugh even more and he casts a worried eye down the hall to where Ciri sleeps, no doubt woken by them, and the rest of the keep, too. Against his side he can feel the rumbles of Jaskier’s laughter as the bard presses his face into his shoulder to try and suppress his giggles.

Somehow, despite the world being even blurrier than before, Geralt guides them down the rest of the hallway. His room is first, then Ciri’s, with Jaskier’s at the end of the corridor.

When they make it to Geralt’s room, Jaskier slips from his grasp and leans against the door and paws uselessly at the handle, “Lemme in.”

“It’s not your room,” Geralt points out.

“Too far away,” Jaskier yawns, “Here.”

Geralt doesn’t protest and opens the door. Jaskier nearly falls over with his support gone and yelps loudly. Geralt tries to close the door as quietly as possible but his hands fumble and it slams anyway. He turns around and sees Jaskier already sprawled across his mattress, boots kicked off to opposite ends of the room.

He toes off his own boots and prods at Jaskier’s side, “Pick a side.”

Jaskier moans at having to move but rolls over enough to let Geralt lie down beside him. The bed feels like it’s spinning when he lies down and he gulps in air hoping he’ll sober up soon but knowing it isn’t likely.

“Cold,” Jaskier mutters, turning to him and pressing up against him.

He makes Jaskier move so he can get the covers from under them and pull them over. Even when he does Jaskier still plasters himself to his side. Geralt’s heart is racing and he isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or Jaskier. His eyes slip shut and he buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair.

They don’t fall asleep quickly. Jaskier tosses and turns, unable to decide if he’s too hot or too cold and Geralt can’t close his eyes without feeling the bed spin in circles under him. At some point Jaskier’s shirt gets thrown harshly across the room leaving him bare chested. Geralt refrains from touching him but Jaskier decides to stick to his side and drool on his shoulder.

Eventually he drifts to sleep. He wakes to the sun shining into his eyes and a dry mouth. Jaskier’s face is tucked into the crook of his neck and Geralt’s arm is slung over his waist.

They’re late for training, he’s still a little drunk and he has a killer headache. He should get up, he desperately needs water, but Jaskier is warm against his side and his eyes are already shutting.

The next time he wakes, he’s turned over, lying on his stomach. There’s a strong arm thrown over him and legs pressed against his own. Jaskier, he thinks distantly. There’s a jug of water and two glasses on his bedside table he doesn’t remember there being before. He grabs the jug and drinks straight from it, swallowing down half before his stomach protests.

He feels the soft brush of Jaskier’s snores against his back. It’s rare that he gets to sleep in and a hangover is a good enough excuse. His stomach rolls with nausea and he shuts his eyes tightly, willing himself back to sleep.

The final time he wakes, he’s on his other side. Jaskier is leaning over him and when he casts a look up, he sees him guzzling water from the jug just the same as he did. Water drips down onto his face and he swipes at it before it can roll into his eyes.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier croaks, putting down the water and slipping back to lay beside him.

“So are you,” Geralt whispers, because his voice isn’t strong enough to speak normally.

Jaskier puffs out his cheeks, he looks paler than usual and his hair is stuck to his skin with sweat. “I feel like death.”

“You look like it, too.”

“Rude!” he snaps his head over to him, mouth agape. “That’s downright indecorous of you, Geralt.”

He shrugs, smirking, “You said it first.”

Jaskier gives a half-hearted glare and sighs heavily, his face twists in discomfort, “I do suppose you’re right. Remind me to keep to regular alcohol instead of your Witcher’s brew. I don’t need the extra help getting drunk.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Geralt lets his eyes run over Jaskier’s face, following the slope of his nose and the curve of his cheeks that the early-afternoon sunlight hits. There’s barely any distance between them. Their legs are still pushed up against each other and even though the extra body heat is slightly uncomfortable he doesn’t pull away.

Jaskier sighs miserably, rubbing at his temples. He drops his hands in frustration and his head rolls to the side so that his nose nearly brushes against Geralt’s. He opens his eyes and his breath catches in his throat.

“Oh, hello,” he whispers.

“Hi,” Geralt swallows. He should move away, maintain the boundary of friendship but he’s pulled like a magnet. Jaskier’s eyes widen only a fraction, questioning. Geralt’s eyes dart down to his lips and back up. They breathe in time with one another, and a slight shiver travels down his spine.

Jaskier’s nose bumps against his so lightly it’s barely there and yet it makes him gasp softly. He sees Jaskier glance down at the noise and back up, eyes locked.

“Jask?” he whispers.

The door slams open, “Wake up, sleepyheads!” Ciri barges loudly into the room carrying another jug of water.

They jump apart and Geralt can hear both his and Jaskier’s heart’s racing at the sudden intrusion. “Melitele’s tits, Ciri, couldn’t you have knocked?” Jaskier admonishes, clutching at his heart.

“Nope,” Ciri pops the p cheerily. “Yennefer sent me, she said not to wait for you to get up on your own.”

Geralt grunts, of course it would be Yennefer who sent them. Still, he takes the jug of water gratefully and takes several long gulps, his mouth no longer dry from only the alcohol.

He passes it to Jaskier and their eyes lock for only a second before they each look away abashed.

Ciri squints and looks between them, “Did I interrupt something?” she asks with all too much glee in her voice.

“My sleep,” Geralt gripes and makes himself stand up. His stomach protests the movement but he just bites his tongue to keep from throwing up. He puts his hands on Ciri’s shoulders and ushers her out of the room. “C’mon, I need to eat.”

“Me too,” Jaskier calls, having gone back to lying curled up in the covers.

“I’ll bring you something,” he promises, then lets Ciri lead him to the kitchen while she tells him about what he missed at this morning’s training. Apparently, Lambert threw up.

* * *

Geralt looks over the journal Yennefer has been detailing Ciri’s magical training progress in. Seeing it written out is startling to see how far she’s come in just a handful of months. It’s a normal occurrence to see the girl performing tricks where she can, whether it’s a weak equivalent to aard on the training yard or something as simple as floating the salt across the dinner table rather than reach for it.

He shudders at the memory of her nightmares and the uncontrollable magic that had pinned them all to the walls. “Thank you for coming, Yen, I don’t know what we would have done for Ciri without you.”

Yennefer smiles smugly but he sees the genuine appreciation in her eyes. She loves Ciri just as much as he does. “The keep would be destroyed by now.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, “Probably.”

“She’ll be more powerful than me one day,” Yennefer muses, “She already is, in a sense, she just can’t control it as well yet.”

“There’s no better teacher.”

Yennefer scrunches her nose, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I don’t want that anymore,” he assures her. They both had used each other and hurt each other in the process. Geralt is glad that it’s over. Yennefer got the child and love she wanted. He never got the love of a partner but the love from his family is stronger than ever.

She snorts, “Oh, I know,” she says in a way that suggests she knows all too much.

He knows she hasn’t read his mind in a long time, but if she can see his feelings for Jaskier then he’s being too obvious about them. Panic begins to seize him, what if Jaskier already knows? Then the logical part of him reminds him that Yennefer has always been able to read his feelings for the bard, even whilst they were together.

“Do you?” he challenges anyway.

Yennefer arches one eyebrow with a face that clearly says that yes, she does. Geralt curses under his breath.

* * *

Ciri makes a disgusted noise, “Gross.”

Geralt whips his head around from watching Jaskier leave to look at her, “What?” he asks incredulously.

“Could you be any more obvious?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Geralt denies, knowing full well what she’s talking about.

Ciri rolls her eyes, “Just tell him already, we’re all sick of it.”

Geralt huffs, being closer to Jaskier than he’s been in years is doing nothing to subdue his feelings but he won’t disrespect him by pushing the boundaries he’s clearly set. Friends. They have to be friends. “I don’t need to tell him anything- wait, what do you mean you’re all sick of it?”

She shoots him a look that he’s come to label in his head as her Calanthe Face, which is when she looks at him like he’s an idiot wasting her time. Yennefer looks at him in a similar way. “Everyone here can see you pining. We want you to tell him just to get it over with.”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“He feels the same way.”

Geralt frowns, “How would you know?” he asks, hoping she’ll tell him Jaskier has said something to her.

Ciri shakes her head in exasperation, “Because I know him. And so do you, if you looked properly.”

“I look at Jaskier.”

“I know,” she laughs, “But you don’t see what’s obvious to the rest of us.”

* * *

The glass paperweight drops into his hand with a thud, he lets it drop out of his hand and catches it with his other and repeats. He needs the distraction so he doesn’t focus on Jaskier sprawled out across his bed, shirt half unbuttoned, playing the lute.

“You can’t do this in your own room?”

“Nope, not when you’ve admitted you like it,” Jaskier grins cheekily.

Geralt is used to Lambert being the one to intrude on his personal space, which he still does, but Jaskier is a new presence in here that he’s unaccustomed to. “Hmm,” he replies, casting his eyes to the ceiling because he’s been looking at him for too long.

The paperweight thumps rhythmically against his palm in time with his heart with each catch. It’s getting harder to ignore his feelings for Jaskier, well, not ignore, but keep them to himself. He’s accepted that he loves him but maintaining the boundary of friendship is painful in ways he hadn’t thought.

When he had kept his distance he had walls around his heart to protect himself. Now he’s making an effort to lower them, but it means Jaskier is closer to his heart than ever. It’s hard to keep a hold of himself when he’s frequently exposed to Jaskier’s smiles and laughs.

“What do you even do in here anyway?” Jaskier asks, looking around his room with a critical eye.

“Read, meditate, whittle.”

“Oh, I forgot you did that,” Jaskier sets aside his lute, “Done any whittling recently?”

Geralt nods, “There’s a box of them under the bed.”

Jaskier hops off the bed and crouches to look under Geralt’s bed to get the box of small whittled ornaments. It’s only a moment later that Geralt remembers what else is under his bed. Jaskier stills and Geralt’s heart stops.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asks, turning around to reveal the bag in his hands. His old bag, that he had left on the mountain.

“Um.”

“Is this mine?” Jaskier asks, already undoing the buckles on the bag.

Geralt jolts from his seat and puts his hands over Jaskier’s to stop them, “Wait.”

“Why? What’s in here?” Jaskier steps backwards and continues opening the bag.

“Nothing-” Geralt says as Jaskier flips open the flap to reveal the contents inside. His journal is at the top, his neatly folded clothes underneath.

Jaskier moves past him and puts the bag on the bed, slowly pulling out his belongings. The bright blue of the doublet seemingly too bright against the muted earthy colours Jaskier has worn all winter. “Why do you have this?” he asks quietly.

Geralt’s shoulders droop. In all honesty, he’d forgotten that the bag was still tucked under his bed. He didn’t need it now that he had Jaskier as a friend. “You left it on the mountain that day. I took it. Thought you might be waiting at the bottom, you weren’t, I didn’t throw it away.”

Jaskier nods slowly, opening the journal and flicking through, “Did you read it?”

“Yes,” Geralt winces.

Jaskier’s jaw tightens, “So you knew I was remembering and you still never told me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. The past few months of having Jaskier close again had been a blessing, he should have known it wouldn’t last.

Jaskier draws in a shaky breath and sits on the edge of Geralt’s bed. “It’s in the past, so I won’t hold it against you. But why did you keep all this?”

Geralt licks his lips hesitantly, “I told you I didn’t want to lose you.”

“It’s just an outfit.”

“Yours.”

Jaskier sets the journal aside, “But you hated me then.”

“I didn’t hate you,” Geralt swipes a hand down his face, “I was scared of you and what you meant to me.”

“And what did I mean to you?” Jaskier pushes, standing up so they’re at eye level.

Geralt has one secret left, one he’s held onto for nearly twenty years. He had been planning on holding onto it until his dying day but standing here he doesn’t have the willpower to keep hiding. “Everything,” he breathes.

“Don’t lie to me,” Jaskier looks away.

Geralt reaches out for Jaskier’s hand to make him look back, “I’m not lying. You did. You do.”

Jaskier’s eyes shine with tears, “Only because of who I used to be.”

Geralt shakes his head, “Every time I’ve loved you it hasn’t been because I already did. In fact, it’s the opposite, I try and avoid it so I don’t have to lose you again,” he pleads. He had fallen in love with Jaskier across four lives, each one different and unique, and for the man he had been at the time. “And every time I fail. Except it’s not a failure to love you.”

“Geralt, I-”

“Let me finish, please, you deserve to know. I love you, Jaskier, and I have for a long time. Not because of who you were but because of who you are. You deserve so much better than I can give you, but I need you to know because I can’t keep it from you any longer.”

Jaskier looks at him searchingly, “What do you want from me, Geralt?”

What Geralt wants isn’t what he has any right to. He thinks about Ciri telling him to look at Jaskier properly. His eyebrows are drawn together in a slight frown, worry and apprehension, but his eyes are wider, perhaps hope. Geralt dares to believe that maybe he feels the same way. And if he doesn’t, at least Geralt might be able to get closure and move on from a definitive no.

“You. If you’ll have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit! sorry for the mild cliffhanger!
> 
> thank you for reading! lemme know what you thought <3


	26. trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuuuhhhh very sorry for the long wait, it was both a combination of being busy irl and just being super Head Empty when it came to writing. buuuttt this chapter is nearly twice as long (14k) as the last one to make up for it!
> 
> the song isn't mentioned but the general vibe is Arms Unfolding - Dodie! 
> 
> hope you enjoy! <33

_Jaskier is in the cottage in Kovir planting vegetable seeds in their garden. Geralt comes riding up to their home, he’s been gone for two weeks on a contract by the border. He’s been here before, in his nightmares, but that uncomfortable feeling is gone. He knows what this is, knows what will happen._

_Geralt ties up Roach and walks through the gate. Jaskier stands up and Geralt presses a hungry kiss to his mouth, he pulls away and rests his forehead against his. “I missed you.”_

_“I missed you, too,” Jaskier replies, as Julian had once replied, but it feels like his choice. He does miss this, misses their easy life, misses not having to question if Geralt wanted him around._

_He watches as Geralt goes back to Roach to put her away properly. He should go back to planting, as Julian had done, but he has control of his body now. He stays standing in their garden staring after where Geralt had just stood._

_He feels a little guilty for enjoying this. This belongs to Julian. And he doesn’t even feel this way about Geralt, it feels like a violation to enjoy the dream when they’re so at odds in real life._

_It’s not necessarily the romance that he enjoys but the contentment. Something he’s never had like this in his current life. He’s longed for this sort of deep love and simplicity for as long as he can remember but it’s so out of reach. Dipping into the past is a guilty pleasure, a taste of something sweet when all he has is bitterness._

_Jaskier can’t control the dream for long. Soon it’s fading at the edges and taking him somewhere else. The forest he now stands in is only familiar because of Geralt by his side._

_There’s an ache in his back and he knows it’s from a stoning. He pants and turns down the path to check if they’ve been followed but they haven’t. He knows this memory, it’s from his own life in the early days of their travels._

_His laughs echo off the trees and Geralt laughs breathlessly too. Jaskier wishes it had always been like this between them. Back then he had been young and the future only promised good times._

_The laughter dies down. There’s still that guarded gaze in Geralt’s eye that hasn’t gone away yet. Now, Jaskier sees the slight frown as he looks at him; back then he hadn’t known him well enough read all his expressions but now he sees the concern for what it is. “Did you get hit?” Geralt asks._

_Jaskier takes a moment to just live in the moment of Geralt caring if he was hurt._

The sounds of slamming doors and footsteps down the hall wake him up. He snuggles further into the warm covers. The draft that Geralt had sealed has made his room significantly warmer and even harder to wake up in the morning.

With great reluctance, he peels open his eyes. The first thing he sees is a pile of folded clothes on his dresser. Ones that Geralt had specifically folded and brought to him.

The Witcher is making an effort. He had been for two months now. Jaskier swallows, taking a shirt off the top of the pile and pulling it over his head. His stomach twists as he prepares to face the rest of them at breakfast but takes a deep breath.

He is wanted here. Geralt is trying to fix things. He needs to remind himself every day because it’s too easy to let the darkness consume him. His walls are so high that he can’t see past them. No one else will take them down so he must do it himself, layer by layer.

* * *

Jaskier sat training out this morning in favour of a lie-in. Waking up early every day takes it’s toll even when he sleeps well at night. He’s sat at the small kitchen table for a late breakfast when Geralt comes in to get a tankard of water that he readily gulps down. He feels his muscles tighten in his presence, still an automatic response to brace himself against whatever insults will be hurled his face. Then he realises that won’t happen and one by one makes his muscles relax.

Geralt is trying. Geralt is trying.

Except, this won’t be fixed by a one-sided effort. If Jaskier truly wants to reach a place of friendly cohabitation then he must put in the work too. He tightens his grip on his spoon, “Training went well?”

Geralt looks at him for a moment and nods, “Yeah. Ciri’s coming along well.”

“That’s good,” he nods. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s always rendered a bit speechless when faced with Geralt.

Geralt fills the tankard again and gestures to the seat opposite him, “Do you mind if I?”

“No, go ahead, please,” he stutters. He glares at his porridge when Geralt sits across from him. His heartbeat rushes in his ear and he takes a mouthful to distract himself.

It’s just Geralt. It’s just sitting. He wants him here.

“You should join us for training more often,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s first reaction is to flinch away from the criticism, he knows he’s not the best even if he remembers what to do – he should be training more than he is if he wants to be useful. Then he tries to rationalise and see it as merely an invitation to spend more time with them.

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” he smiles tightly. He finishes his porridge quickly and leaves before he can question things too much.

* * *

Cleaning the stables is no one’s favourite task. Jaskier is glad that the weather is picking up because it had been even worse in the height of winter crossing over the snow to the smaller building the animals are kept in. In the worst of it, only the Witchers had taken up the task, but now that it is warming again Jaskier is back on duty.

Eskel is on the other side of the stables mucking out while Jaskier refills the water and hay. They’ll be here for another while cleaning the horses themselves and the other farm cattle they keep for fresh produce.

“Shh,” he soothes one of the flustered chickens when he turns his attention to taking the eggs. He gently moves her to the side and brushes down her ruffled feathers with the tips of his fingers.

“How many eggs?” Eskel calls over.

“Quite a few, enough for a decent breakfast.”

Eskel looks pleased with the information. Eggs for breakfast were a rare treat from the usual porridge. Jaskier tries to work as quietly and as quickly as possible so as not to be a bother.

He sets aside the basket of eggs and grabs a brush for the horses. Roach bumps her head against his chest when he steps into her stall and he strokes down the side of her neck, “Good girl.”

Eskel starts on his own horse in the next stall. Jaskier hums to himself as he goes until he catches Eskel looking at him and he stops.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Oh, uh, sorry, didn’t mean to start.”

Eskel looks confused, “I didn’t mind.”

Jaskier blinks, “Oh. Wait, really?”

“Why would I mind?” Eskel shrugs, “I’ve never minded before, have I?”

Jaskier casts his mind back to if he’s ever sang in front of Eskel before. He’s certainly played in the keep but he kept that to his own room or one of the towers. He hasn’t played for the lot of them all winter. It’s possible Eskel has heard him composing in his room but they’re on separate floors. The only time Eskel has seen him perform has been when he was Julian. His stomach sours as he’s reminded that the friendship they once shared doesn’t belong to him anymore.

“Right,” he whispers, finishing up brushing down Roach and crossing past Eskel to Lambert’s horse.

They work in silence and he can feel Eskel’s eyes on him. “What’s wrong?” Eskel asks after several minutes.

“Nothing.”

“It’s something,” Eskel narrows his eyes.

Jaskier winces, “It’s fine.”

“Jaskier.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he insists.

Eskel scoffs, “You can’t lie to me. I know you.”

“Do you?” Jaskier snaps before he can think to stop himself.

Eskel pauses, “Well, yeah?” he says hesitantly. He moves around Jaskier to the stall next to him to start on Vesemir’s horse.

Jaskier’s shoulders sag as he brushes down the flank of the horse. “No, you don’t,” he says quietly, “You knew Julian. I’m sorry but I’m not the same anymore.”

“I know,” Eskel says easily, “But I’ve also known you for four months now. And I’ve listened to Geralt talk about you since you met. So, I know you.”

Jaskier is stunned. He opens and closes his mouth several times. “But, but there’s all those things you told Julian that I remember. That doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

Eskel shakes his head, “They’re your memories, you’re allowed them. And now I don’t need to tell you twice.”

His hands tremble and he brushes down the horse's leg. His brain can’t make sense of Eskel accepting him as he is. It was Julian who had been loved by the Witchers, not him. Why would they want a poor example of a replacement? “You don’t want me to be Julian?”

Eskel sends him a sympathetic look. “I’ve had seven decades to come to terms with Julian dying. I’ll admit it was a bit of a shock when you showed up here like a ghost. You don’t need to be Julian to belong here. We’ve all changed since then, you just did it in a new body.”

Jaskier doesn’t think they’ve changed all that much. The Witchers are a bit rougher around the edges, a few more scars than before but still the same at their core. Geralt has changed the most. Jaskier wonders how much he’s really changed since Julian, since all the lives before.

* * *

Jaskier spins the ring around his finger absently as he sits at his desk. He can’t help but think of Renfri and their life on the road, not unlike his travels with Geralt but more on the criminal side. She had always hidden him from the worst of her gang’s actions, protected him from the harshness of the world; she couldn’t protect him from herself.

He saw how she became obsessed with killing Stregobor. Her need for revenge had lead them down increasingly dangerous paths and caused her death. She couldn’t forgive and it cost her everything.

Should she have forgiven him? As Daffodil he had seen first hand what Stregobor did to her – he hadn’t thought she should forgive him, as much as he hated her seeking revenge. Jaskier doesn’t know what he thinks now. How much pain is too much to warrant forgiveness?

He doesn’t think not forgiving Geralt would cause his death by any means, but he knows all too well that holding a grudge never ends well.

Part of him wishes Renfri were here to tell him what to do, she’d be an old lady by now had she lived. He can’t imagine her ever settling down. She would have spent decades chasing Stregobor and he knows that wouldn’t have satiated her need for vengeance. All too clearly he can picture her turning her attention to her step-mother and half-siblings. Were she here, she would no doubt she would tell him not to forgive Geralt, to come with her.

That alone is enough to make him realise that the wiser option would be to forgive Geralt. The logic checks out, the pros outweigh the cons. They can’t escape each other so why hold onto the past?

The lines are blurring inside him – he can’t quite tell if he still hurts from it all or if he’s just being stubborn. Is the feeling of betrayal as strong as it once was? It feels like he spends his nights thinking himself in circles over Geralt.

It’s impossible not to find his thoughts drifting to the man. Decades of memories of being in love with him makes it hard to determine if it’s truly him who wants to forgive Geralt or if it’s them.

* * *

“What are you doing down here?” Geralt asks when he finds him curled up with a book in front of the fire.

Jaskier knows that the question comes because by now he’s usually holed up in his room. Where he would be right now if he weren’t for one simple fact. “There’s a spider in my room.”

Geralt quirks an amused smile, “A spider?”

He nods, “A huge one.”

“You’ve spent all that time on the road and you’re afraid of a spider?”

“Only when I’m trapped in a room with it,” he defends. He knows what a fool he must look saying such a thing to a renowned monster hunter.

Geralt nods in acceptance. “You want me to kill it?” he offers.

Jaskier shakes his head, “No, I don’t want it dead. It’s just going about its day,” he smiles awkwardly. “On my bookshelf,” he mutters.

“Hmm,” Geralt nods and walks away.

Jaskier turns his attention back to his book. It’s an old one he dug out of the library on fae that he’s been slowly working his way through the past week. His own encounter with the fae hasn’t escaped his mind and he wonders which of his memories she took, if it was one of Buttercup's or if she saw Dandelion, too.

A few minutes later, Geralt comes back. He walks past with cupped hands through to the other room and is gone again for a few minutes. When he reappears he leans in the doorframe, “I got rid of your spider.”

“Oh!” Jaskier perks up. As comfy as sitting in front of the fire is, it’s nothing compared to being snuggled in bed. “Thank you”

“No problem.”

* * *

Ciri swings her legs off the table she is sat on while Jaskier is sat cross-legged on the ground. “Are you sure?” she asks tentatively.

“Go ahead,” he assures, “Got nothing to hide.”

She takes a deep breath and sets her jaw. He keeps his mind as open as he can and stays as relaxed as possible. He doesn’t feel anything and her face scrunches in concentration, he just holds her gaze and waits.

“It’s not working,” she grumbles.

“You still learning. Take your time.”

She shuffles and focusses again. They sit in silence for nearly half an hour before he feels the slightest of brushes against his mind. It presses deeper, not as forceful as Yennefer but he can feel it.

It retreats and Ciri blinks rapidly, “You were thinking a song?”

He nods eagerly, “My most famous song.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

He makes an offended noise and then realises that of course she hadn’t, he’d never sung it in Cintra because Calanthe had forbidden it. He doesn’t have his lute but that’s never stopped him before. He launches into the first verse of Toss A Coin. Ciri laughs when he reaches the chorus and the high notes echo out of the abandoned tower they are in and into the rest of the keep.

“Is it true?” she asks when he finishes.

“No,” he admits, “The elves were starving and living in caves, they needed to steal food to survive. They tied us up and were going to kill us but they let us go. Filavandrel was a good man,” he trails off. He doesn’t know where Filavandrel is now, or if he’s even alive, but he hopes he is. Aga, too.

Ciri chews her lip, “My grandmother killed elves.”

“I know.”

“After Cintra, I met a boy, an elf, he saved me. His name was Dara,” she says quietly, “I told him who I was and he told me what my grandmother did. I thought he was my family but he left me.”

Jaskier pats the floor beside him and she comes to sit next to him. He hadn’t considered the effect of hiding Cintra’s prejudice’s from Ciri would have. He should have found a way to teach her sooner, like Pavetta would have done, but he is grateful that she was not raised to hate.

“I fought in the Great Cleansing, y’know?” he starts and she looks up at him with wide eyes. “On the human side, ridding the world of elves. Did that for a year and then I realised how wrong it was and turned sides. I was injured and Filavandrel, the King of the elves, helped me. It took the other elves a while to realise that I wasn’t like the other humans.”

“But you fought on their side,” Ciri interjects.

Jaskier shrugs, “And I fought against them before that. They were right to be wary of me. You’ve never harmed anyone but Dara’s life has been different from yours, he’s grown up fearing humans and being hated. He was just protecting himself.”

Ciri swallows thickly, “I suppose.”

“It’s okay to feel hurt,” he brushes his hand over her head, “But there’s two sides.”

She nods and seems to accept it. She overs him a small smile and sniffles, “The elves liked you eventually, though?”

He nods and tells her about living in Dol Blathana and learning Elder and the months he spent with them. He tells her about the letters they sent well into his old age. Then he ends up telling her about the cottage in Kovir. About the manor near the bottom of the mountain. About the little village he had once grown up in.

Jaskier tells her anecdote after anecdote. Anything he can remember to make her laugh until it starts to go dark and they head to supper.

On their way, he realises how easy it had been to recall all those memories. They hadn’t felt like someone other than him. It was him who had lived it all, been there. He hadn’t fought against the memories or felt pulled down by them. They were just him, who he used to be, they didn’t need to change who he is now.

All of his pieces slotted perfectly together.

He would never be them again but they were a part of him all the same. In the face of immortality, he knows that even this will fade into a distant memory; he is as much a part of his future as they are of his past, because one day he will look back and no longer be who he is now.

* * *

It isn’t some sudden revelation or grand epiphany. It isn’t even something he really notices at first until it’s already happened. But somewhere along the way, his heart has stopped hurting.

He doesn’t freeze when he sees Geralt. He doesn’t brace in preparation for a disregarding comment. He doesn’t think about the mountain or the year after, and when he does it doesn’t make him ache.

Jaskier realises this when he chuckles at a joke Geralt makes over dinner. And thinking back it’s been a while since he felt quite so weighed down by it all and wonders how he didn’t notice before. He’s already forgotten the joke and the conversation has moved on.

He looks at Geralt, really looks at him in a way that he hasn’t allowed himself to in years. Geralt laughs at something Ciri says, passes a jug of water to Yennefer, catches his eyes and smiles politely before going back to Ciri.

Jaskier doesn’t hate him, doesn’t feel crushed by his gaze.

He thinks about the mountain, thinks about the curse. Geralt had been wrong but Jaskier doesn’t feel angry about it anymore. It’s an upsetting part of his past but no longer a part of his present.

The shadow that had hung over him for so long has finally gone, letting in bits of sunlight so gradually he didn’t realise until it shone in his face.

He lingers after dinner, enjoying the presence of the people he loves. He’s glad he’s reached this point. For the sake of raising Ciri and living with each other, and for himself.

* * *

Every two weeks Vesemir bakes sweet bread. He only spares their resources enough for a small batch and it’s not long before the entire thing is devoured. Jaskier has had abysmal luck in actually getting a slice the past three times. Lambert and Ciri are the culprits, he suspects. Whenever he is made aware the sweet bread has been baked it’s already gone.

He gets in from cleaning the stables and smells the baked goods lingering in the air. Jaskier already knows he will face an empty plate of disappointment but his stomach rumbles all the same.

When he reaches the dining table, sure enough, there’s an empty plate of crumbs and no sweet bread in sight.

Jaskier glares at the plate as though it has personally offended him. Which it has. Not that Vesemir’s regular bread isn’t good but sweet treats are few and far between up here. He fixes himself a sandwich and sits at the kitchen table to avoid looking at the sorry remnants of what would have been a lovely morning treat.

Geralt comes by a while later carrying the empty plate and washing it up. “What’s got you looking so moody?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier mutters bitterly, glancing at the empty plate. “Did you get any?”

Geralt hums a yes and Jaskier takes a bite of his plain tasting sandwich and hates it even more.

It’s not long before he gets swept up in the tasks of the day which includes giving Ciri a more formal education beyond swords and magic. It’s getting late and he’s considering going to bed when there’s a light knock on his door. He yawns as he gets up from his bed to answer.

He finds Geralt, dusted with flour and holding out a plate of misshapen sweet bread. “I know you didn’t get a slice, so I made you some,” Geralt explains bashfully.

“You made me sweet bread?” Jaskier asks dumbfounded, taking the plate.

Geralt blushes and nods, “I asked Vesemir for the recipe.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier’s mouth waters at the sight. He can smell it already and he’s fairly sure it’s still a little warm. “Do you want any?”

“No, it’s just for you,” Geralt assures, “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Jaskier bids him farewell and returns to his bed with the treat. He takes a bite and closes his eyes at the sweet flavour and fluffy sponge. It takes a lot of restraint to save half for himself in the morning.

* * *

Jaskier sings to himself as he methodically dries and puts away the plate. Sailors always came up with the best work songs, the beat matching the repetitive motions of their work while keeping spirits up.

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt interrupts.

“Hmm?”

“Can you sing something else?” he snaps and Jaskier’s eyes go wide as he realises he’s been singing additional verses of the song for over ten minutes. Something he enjoys, and sailors would too, but any regular person would surely get sick of. Before he can apologise, Geralt visibly winces at his words, “Shit, sorry. You don’t have to. You can continue.”

It occurs to Jaskier that he doesn’t know he’s forgiven. He hadn’t felt the need to tell him as such; he assumed that by being around him more the man would have realised they were on good terms. It also strikes him just how much Geralt has been trying to right his wrongs.

Dry humour is how Geralt tells jokes and he never passes up an opportunity to playfully insult his brothers. And yet, this year he’s been holding back from saying such things to Jaskier. Keeping away the cruelty of his words even when the intent isn’t to harm.

“I forgive you, you know,” he says suddenly. He’s reached a place of acceptance around Geralt, he doesn’t worry about their interactions anymore it’s only fair that Geralt feels the same.

“You do?” Geralt asks, wide eyed and sounding so small.

Jaskier looks away, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And I spoke to Yennefer about it. I understand why you did it all, and it’s in the past. You’ve changed. I don’t want to hold a grudge, life’s too short.”

He looks up to meet Geralt’s eyes and he can read the shock and relief all over his face. “Thank you.”

“I’d rather be here and look after Ciri with you as friends than have us tiptoe around each other,” he ventures, hoping that it isn’t just forgiveness that Geralt has been seeking.

Geralt nods quickly, “I’d like to be your friend.”

The last part of him that had been hesitant dissipates and he smiles. To be Geralt’s friend had been all he wanted. It had once seemed impossible. “Me too.”

* * *

When Jaskier finally drags himself away from his room for some much-needed food he runs into Geralt in the kitchen. “Hey,” he greets with a smile, grabbing a plate and some snacks.

“Hi,” Geralt croaks from the table, his voice scratchier than usual.

Jaskier spares him a look and sees that the Witcher has dark bags under his eyes and his skin looks pale. “Everything alright?”

Geralt nods and coughs into his elbow. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” Jaskier takes his plate of food and sits opposite, “What’s wrong?”

“Just a cold.”

“I thought Witchers don’t get sick?”

Geralt hums, “Yennefer made some sort of anti-healing potion and I’m her test subject. Got sick within a day.”

He looks miserable and Jaskier can’t help but snicker, “You’ve never been sick with flu before,” he grins, “Welcome to human misery.”

Geralt glares but it’s hardly scary in his condition. However hilarious he finds it, and he thinks he has the right to find a little joy in Geralt’s suffering, Jaskier does feel a bit bad for him. He stands up and fills the kettle with water and sets it over the fire.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you get by,” he says as he makes a mug of tea with an extra helping of honey. There’s no lemons left this late in the season but the honey should help soothe Geralt’s throat. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Geralt offers a small smile, breathing in the steam rising from the mug.

“No problem.”

* * *

The snow is melting and the mountain pass is clearing. Jaskier itches to go back out into the world, travel and dazzle audiences, but he knows the Continent is a vastly different place to what it once was. Even if they weren’t staying at Kaer Morhen for the year, it would be too dangerous to perform with Ciri with them.

That doesn’t mean he can’t compose songs for when it’s eventually safe to perform them. It’s been so long since he performed he’s sure he’s faded from the public eye. Valdo Marx is probably doing better than him now on account of living in a city. Nevertheless, Jaskier won’t let this setback get in the way when the time comes.

Songs about Witchers were always his greatest hits, so that’s where he’ll start. Plus, he no longer feels the need to actively avoid singing about Geralt. The hard part is a startling lack of inspiration for hunt songs while they’re here, which is how he finds himself in the library to find inspiration for a plausible story amongst the lore books. He needs new stories, ones that will catch the public’s attention. He’s about to go rooting for interesting looking books and scrolls when Geralt joins him at the table.

Jaskier knows it’s ridiculous, but he’s gotten used to composing alone in his room so doing so with an audience, the star of his song no less, is suddenly nerve-wracking. They sit in silence and Jaskier fidgets awkwardly. “Haven’t you memorised that all by now?” he asks, watching Geralt read a book he swears he’s seen him read three times before.

“Need to keep my knowledge up to date,” Geralt frowns a little and Jaskier finds it amusing that the Witcher would ever forget.

“As if you don’t know everything already.” Jaskier doodles in the corner of his page and writes out a couple of ideas for chord progressions. He runs through monsters that Geralt has already fought searching for one he hasn’t made into a song but comes up blank. “Actually, now that you’re here, what’s it like fighting a leshen? I was going to spend my afternoon trying to find something in here but you’ll probably be a better source.”

“Planning on fighting a leshen?”

“Of course not. I’m writing a song, need inspiration and facts to inform my future audiences,” he says, putting on his best pleading look.

Instead, Geralt doesn’t answer his question. “You’re singing about Witchers again?” he asks, voice small and almost hopeful but Jaskier thinks he might be hearing things.

“Well, you are my muse.”

Geralt had launched his career, Jaskier was famous for singing about the White Wolf it would be a bold move to give that up. Plus, nobody has held his attention for so long. Fleeting lovers had acted as his muse for a week, a month at best, Geralt gave him endless inspiration for songs. It was even more apparent now that Jaskier knows he found him in nearly every lifetime.

“Am I still?”

“Without a doubt,” Jaskier assures. Sure, there had been a time when he swore to never think or sing about Geralt again, but they were friends now.

“Oh,” Geralt whispers and Jaskier begins to think that he doesn’t want to be sung about again but then he tells him how to fight a leshen. So Jaskier thinks they’ll be okay.

* * *

“No, no, no,” Jaskier points his finger at Geralt across the table, “You’re not telling it right.”

“That’s what happened,” Geralt defends.

Jaskier scoffs and turns to face Lambert and Eskel who are looking at them in amusement. “What actually happened what that the griffin had him pinned and he would have died without me.”

Lambert nods, “That sounds about right.”

“I would’ve been fine,” Geralt interjects.

“I saved your life.”

“You threw a rock at its head.”

Jaskier nods, taking a sip of ale, “Thus saving you.”

Geralt rolls his eyes but doesn’t counter him. Jaskier grins wider at his obvious triumph, it’s a rare occurrence when Geralt doesn’t try to get him to rid the embellishments from his tales.

He decides to push his luck. “How about the time I very graciously completed your contract for you?”

Eskel leans forward, “Oh I need to hear about this.”

Geralt sinks into his seat and covers his face with his hands, “Shut up, Jaskier,” he mumbles.

Jaskier grins, “Our tale starts in some terrible village down south. They’ve been plagued by a vampire for weeks-“

“A bruxa,” Geralt interjects, grumbling into his tankard.

“- a beautiful vampire, luring all the young men in town to a horrible death. Usually operating out of the Swan Song Inn, so Geralt made me stay at the run down Coot’s Arms on the other side of town.”

Lambert clicks his tongue and looks at Geralt in faux outrage, “You didn’t put your wonderful bard up in a credible establishment?”

“Precisely,” Jaskier agrees with a glare at Geralt. “Although, he did leave me a silver dagger, just in case.”

Eskel smirks, “What a gentleman.”

“So, I was waiting around and courting a beautiful young lady,” Jaskier continues and ignores Geralt’s eye roll, “And boasting my fighting skills.”

“You didn’t have any fighting skills,” Geralt inputs and is quickly shushed by Lambert and Eskel.

“And I’m showing her my lovely silver dagger. And of course, I realised she was the vampire in question and graciously killed her for Geralt,” Jaskier finishes with a spread of his arms.

It’s almost the truth, but the whole truth never makes for interesting stories. Lambert and Eskel roar with laughter, Geralt tries to speak over them to correct the story but they don’t let him.

Jaskier can feel the alcohol in his veins loosening him up. At the start of winter, he had never expected to feel so relaxed amongst their company. The days of quietening his footsteps and giving them space slowly disappearing now that he feels more comfortable.

He watches as Geralt tries to correct the story – that Jaskier tripped and ended up accidentally stabbing the bruxa enough to save himself before Geralt came to finish the job. Lambert and Eskel go to great lengths to defend Jaskier’s version of the story the more defensive Geralt gets. A tankard of ale gets knocked over somewhere in the commotion.

The table is sticky underneath his fingers by the end of the night and the terrible ale isn’t settling well in his stomach. Still, he feels like he’s regained something he’d lost. His friendship with Eskel and Lambert may not be what it once was but there is more to it than he had thought. And it had been easy to forget what friendship with Geralt was like in the dark winter months, but now he remembers that they did have good days. That in those twenty years they had been friends, there were plenty of times that made it all worthwhile.

Jaskier thinks he has that back now, and this time it won’t be lost.

* * *

“Wanna be my partner?” he asks Geralt when they all arrive for training in the morning.

Geralt’s eyes go a little wide but he quickly recovers, “Sure.”

Jaskier nods and goes to grab a sword. His nerves are picking up in anticipation, he hasn’t trained with Geralt all winter so he doesn’t know what to expect. He knows it shouldn’t be any different to training with the others but this feels important.

“Ready?” Geralt asks him when he joins him and they begin to spar.

Jaskier knows when and where to hit and move but his body works slower than his mind. Even with the knowledge, he doesn’t have the years of practice to back up his knowledge. His muscles protest the heavy sword and fast motions, even if he has built up some more muscle since arriving.

Slowly they increase in speed and he can feel sweat down his back but he doesn’t want to be the first to give in.

“You still doing fine?”

“Why? You tired?” he rebuts, despite his arms beginning to protest the exercise.

“Tired of sub-par sparring,” Geralt taunts and Jaskier’s resolve hardens.

He attacks quickly and manages to hit Geralt and almost disarms him. Geralt comes back with renewed effort and it’s only through sheer force of will that Jaskier holds his own against the attack. Their blades cross and neither pull away and put as much force as they can into pushing against the other.

Jaskier realises he should forfeit but is determined to win. His arms shake with the effort, a tremor he can’t stop, and his feet slide back a centimetre.

“Had enough?”

“Never,” Jaskier bites right as his arms fold in on themselves and the weight of Geralt against him sends him falling backwards.

His back and head hit the hard floor sending pain throughout and it takes a moment to realise that Geralt is sprawled across his lap. Jaskier pushes himself to sit up and his hand goes to the tender spot on the back of his head, there’s no blood but it hurts to touch.

“You okay?” Geralt asks, leaning forward and putting his hand over the injury. Their fingers brush and Jaskier surpresses a gasp. He holds his breath with Geralt being so close, his fingertips lightly brushing over the sore spot. His touch sends sparks through Jaskier, distracting him from the pain.

“Yeah, you owe me a new skull.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Geralt agrees with a serious face and Jaskier laughs.

Ciri and Eskel come over to see if he’s alright and end up insulting his sword-fighting skills. Which is terribly rude of them, even if he weren’t injured. He really needs to teach Ciri the manners she’s lost.

Geralt agrees with them and Jaskier tries to tackle him but he gets lifted over his shoulder and spun around. He yells and tries to escape his grasp but his efforts send them both back to the floor. This time he’s not the one hitting the floor and is able to pin Geralt for his crimes.

Then Ciri leaps on his back and he barely manages not to fall over. “I’m being attacked,” he yells, grabbing her legs and scooping her up as he stands and spins them around.

She shrieks in his ear and laughs and he spins them. He’s a bit too old for this, or rather, she’s a bit too old for this, but he’d do anything for her. He loses his footing and starts to wobble.

There are hands grabbing his own and steadying him and Ciri slides off his back. His vision is blurry and his stomach feels sick, “Mistakes were made,” he groans. He hears a snicker and sees that it’s Geralt who helped him. “This is your fault.”

“I don’t think so,” Geralt smirks and Jaskier scoffs but his cheeks stretch into an even bigger smile. He feels like he’s floating on air.

* * *

A smile crosses his lips as he watches Yennefer and Vesemir step out and begin to dance followed by Ciri and Eskel. He can’t deny he wants to join them; Cintra was the last time he partook in any sort of formal dancing, and it was usually only a dance or two when taking a break from performing. Even if the music from the music box sounds hollow and tiny it sparks a longing in him.

Jaskier’s heart stops at Geralt’s offer to dance.

“Uh, what- you mean- um, you don’t have to,” he stutters out, he knows how much Geralt hates dancing.

“I don’t mind.”

Jaskier briefly wonders if Geralt has been replaced by a doppler but accepts the offer and they step out to join the others. He feels very aware of how close they are and is filled with sudden shyness. Geralt moves first and places his hands on his waist and Jaskier automatically places his hand on his shoulder, and lastly, they hold hands.

He keeps his touches as light as possible and keeps a respectable distance. Geralt didn’t have to offer to do this, Jaskier isn’t going to make it weird. It’s clear that he needs to lead the two of them to the music and he keeps his eyes fixed on his feet even though he doesn’t need to watch them.

The song changes and Jaskier glances at the small music box. It’s still winding by itself and a faster tune even though it should only be able to play one song. He leads them in a faster dance, taking the chance to keep dancing even though reasonably he should thank Geralt for the opportunity and sit back down.

Geralt trips and steps forward into his chest several times. Each time causes the heat to rise in Jaskier’s chest at the contact. This close he can’t ignore how handsome Geralt is, his hair pulled back and jaw covered in stubble, no sign of monster guts anywhere. It’s not his place to admire him in such a way but he’s only human and he’s not blind.

Part of him longs for the days where dancing together and being close came without a second thought. Geralt is watching the others dance and Jaskier takes the opportunity to really look at him. He’s older and more worn than the last time they danced like this, back when his bones protested each step in an old body, and it isn’t merely the extra scars. Geralt’s whole life of suffering, heartbreak, is written here on his face; but in the concentration on his face and the light in his eyes, Jaskier swears he sees the love and warmth too.

Geralt locks eyes with him and Jaskier realises he’s been staring and ducks his head. His palms are getting sweaty and his heart is picking up speed. Geralt trips again and Jaskier feels bold so holds him closer to him so that they are flush together.

“Sorry,” Geralt mumbles, eyebrows pinching together as he tries to focus on the steps and follow Jaskier’s lead.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jaskier whispers, his mouth next to Geralt’s ear. Geralt snakes his hand around his back and his breath catches in his throat. The next song is slow again and all he can focus on is Geralt against him and the soft sway of their bodies.

Geralt tightens his grip and Jaskier feels a rush go down his spine. He feels both tense and excited and relaxed and content at the same time. Their faces are mere inches away and Jaskier is overcome with longing.

The song abruptly switches to a fast song and he steps out of Geralt’s personal space and the pairs come together for the group dance. It’s popular amongst courts and involves lots of changing partners and fast steps. He already knows it’s going to end badly.

The first swap lands him with Lambert as a partner. Jaskier kicks out his feet in time to the beat while Lambert stands stubbornly and refuses to mirror his actions. “C’mon like this,” he encourages, repeating the moves until Lambert copies him.

“This is ridiculous,” Lambert complains.

“This is easy,” Jaskier grins. His mind and heart are still racing over dancing with Geralt but he pushes that aside to focus on the dance. The next swap lands him with Yennefer as a partner, who thankfully knows how to dance.

* * *

Training with Lambert is either the best or the worst. On one hand, he fights as if it’s real which is good for practice. On the other, he fights as if it’s real which is bad when Jaskier was awake all night composing.

He doesn’t know how he loses his grip of his sword but it’s already clattering to the ground. Lambert doesn’t stop and Jaskier dodges his next blow just in time. He staggers back, as Lambert keeps attacking – the rules are you don’t stop until someone is on the ground.

Jaskier lunges forward and manages to steal a long dagger from Lambert’s waist. It’s not much against a sword but it’s something. He brings it up to block the sword before it hits his face, but the strength required to fight the force of the sword is much higher with a smaller weapon.

He grunts in pain as the blow sends shock waves up his arm. Lambert pushes harder and Jaskier’s hand bends backwards uncomfortably. Thankfully, Lambert releases and swings hard at his side.

Jaskier knows he could block it but his right arm is singing in pain. He lets the hit come, thankful that they use blunt blades, and it slams into his ribs. He chokes and lets the force topple him to his knees.

As he falls forward he braces his hands in front of him and his right wrist screams in pain. “Alright, I’m done,” he pants, “You killed me.”

Lambert squints, “You barely lasted ten minutes.”

“Late night,” he apologises with a tight smile and quickly hands back the dagger and picks up his sword.

“Can’t let that stop you in the real world.”

Jaskier shrugs, “Good thing you’re not actually trying to kill me then.” He puts his sword away and sits on the floor, back against the wall to watch the rest of them train.

He cradles his wrist to his chest. It hurts to move but if he keeps it still the pain is only a dull throb. There’s no swelling or bruising, not yet anyway, and Jaskier counts his blessings. He doesn’t want them to think he’s too weak to keep up with them, to be worth keeping around.

He’s already exhausted and wants nothing more than to go lie down and have a nap. Instead, he watches them train for the next few hours, refusing offers to join them.

By the time they filter out of the large hall his wrist has gone stiff. He lets his arm dangle by his side but the blood now flowing to it only makes the pain more obvious.

“Did you see me win?” Ciri bounds up to him, brushing against his side. Jaskier barely conceals the grunt of pain as she sends new sparks of pain into his wrist and ribs.

“I did,” he gives her an encouraging smile, “You’re doing great.”

She beams up at him and runs ahead to go find Yennefer for her next lesson. Jaskier breaks off from the rest of them and makes his way to the laboratories. He knows they keep bandages here somewhere.

His wrist is beginning to swell and bruise around the bone. His ribs hurt from Lambert’s final blow but thankfully not as much as his wrist. Jaskier holds his arm to his chest and uses his left to open cupboards and root around.

Finally, he finds a roll of bandages and shakes them out. With some difficulty, he rolls up his sleeve and tries to wrap the bandage. The door creaks open and he looks up sheepishly at Geralt standing in the doorway.

“You disappeared after training,” Geralt explains. His eyes narrow in on his wrist and he steps forward, “Are you hurt?”

“Just from training, it’s nothing serious.”

Geralt is already taking his hand in his, so soft and gentle that it barely stings. His fingers run over his wrist, pressing in slightly and rubbing against the bone. “I don’t think it’s broke. Just sprained,” he says, wordlessly taking the bandage and beginning to wrap it.

Jaskier can feel his heart beating in his chest at Geralt’s delicate touches. “That’s good,” he nods.

“You should be more careful,” Geralt admonishes as he ties off the bandage.

“It’s not my fault Lambert doesn’t quit.”

Geralt frowns, “I’ll tell him to stop being an asshole.”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier shakes his head, he doesn’t want to cause a fight. He looks at where Geralt is still holding his hand in his own. They’re so close. He steps back and pulls his hand away. It hurts less now that it’s bandaged properly. “Won’t be able to play for a while.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says genuinely.

“It’s not your fault,” Jaskier gives him a gentle smile. They’re still so close and he feels his face heat up when he realises Geralt must hear his racing heart. “Well, I’m famished. Lunch?” he says and quickly leaves the room and speeds to the kitchen.

* * *

It takes two weeks before he can take the bandages off but he still valiantly tries to strum his lute. He can’t pluck the strings which severely limits his compositions but he manages. Even when his wrist is healed, he is hesitant to join training again, thankfully no one seems to mind his absence.

He still comes to watch most days to see Ciri’s progress and to watch Geralt. The man in question isn’t training but standing next to him. And offering to cut his hair.

Part of him thinks Geralt won’t ever actually do it, as they leave it at that for a few days. But then Jaskier finds himself walking to the spring baths at the bottom of the keep with Geralt in tow.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Geralt with cutting his hair – the Witcher has done it in past lives before. However, he also wears his hair shorter now and it’s harder to cut than just a trim. He reminds himself that it’s only his family that will see it if Geralt does a terrible job and at least he won’t have to deal with tangles anymore.

“You’ll need to wet your hair,” Geralt tells him and he pulls up a stool.

Jaskier looks at the baths set into the floor and realises what he needs to do. He fumbles with his shirt buttons as he gets undressed. Geralt has seen him bathe many times on the Path, but not for a long time and he feels a little exposed. He keeps his small clothes on and gets in the water dunking under.

The water is pleasantly warm and he feels some of the tension relax from his muscles. He swims to the surface and crosses his arms along the floor at the edge of the bath, “Where do you want me?”

“On the edge,” Geralt sits in the stool and Jaskier spins around and lifts himself up to sit on the edge on the bath, his legs still in the water.

He shivers as the cooler air hits his skin but he feels heat rush through him again when Geralt brings a comb to his hair. His touch his gentle, even on the tangles, and Jaskier holds back from leaning into the touch of his hands.

“How short do you want it?”

“Just as short as I usually have it,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He can feel his heart beating in his chest and he’s sure Geralt must hear it too. He keeps his breaths steady and tries not to let his mind wander.

Jaskier looks at the ripples that move out from where his legs kick lightly into the water. He watches condensation drip down the rockface walls in the cavern. He tries to concentrate on anything that isn’t Geralt’s hands in his hair.

He’s sure that his cheeks must be bright red. They feel burning hot. It’s just a friendly favour but Jaskier can’t help but blush at the intimacy of it. He hums an old love song absentmindedly to distract himself.

Geralt sets aside the scissors and then runs his fingers through his hair once more and Jaskier can’t help but hum in appreciation and lean into the touch. “All done,” Geralt rumbles behind him and then brushes the fallen hair off his shoulders and Jaskier shudders at the touch.

He looks up and moves his head back far enough that he can see Geralt without moving, “Thank you.” Jaskier looks back and runs his hand through his hair and finds the length to be what it used to be, he can’t find any glaring issues. He turns around, “Feels perfect,” he sends Geralt a thankful smile and then slides back into the water.

The cut hair that sticks to his skin is a bugger to get off but being in the water stops it itching the back of his neck. He dunks in and out and scrubs at his skin to try and get it off until he’s satisfied.

He swims back to Geralt, “You joining me?”

“I’ll let you bathe in peace,” Geralt shakes his head and Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s grateful or disappointed.

“Okay. I’ll see you at dinner?”

Geralt nods and leaves and Jaskier lets out a deep sigh and sinks under the water. Gods, why couldn’t he ever keep his heart to himself? He hadn’t wanted to think about it too much but he can’t deny he’s getting feelings for Geralt again.

He’s been here before, he knows what it feels like. With every touch, he craves more while feeling his cheeks blush with embarrassment at what should be a simple exchange. He needs to pull himself together – loving Geralt has got him hurt before. But he’s never been good at reigning in his heart.

* * *

Jaskier knocks on Yennefer’s door somewhat frantically. He never comes here but desperate times call for desperate actions. She opens the door with an annoyed look, “What?”

“I need your help.”

“When don’t you?”

He sends her a pleading look and she lets him inside. He shouldn’t have expected her room to look anything less than glorious. It’s bright with natural light that the windows shouldn’t really be letting through. The furniture is plush and new and nothing like the furniture in the rest of the keep. Her bed looks bigger and even the room itself does too. The wonderful benefits of magic.

“Well?”

Jaskier rubs his fingers together anxiously, “Right, um, it’s about Geralt.”

Yennefer sighs and sits on a chaise and reclines into it, “When isn’t it?”

He shoots her a glare, “I’m ignoring that. Okay, so, I may have recently been getting some little, uh, feelings for him?” he winces, awaiting her reaction.

Her face is still blank, “Is that it?”

He blinks, “Yes? What do I do?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “What do you mean? Tell him.”

Jaskier laughs, “No. We’ve only just managed to be friends, I don’t want to ruin that.”

She tilts her head, “Why would it ruin it?”

“He doesn’t want me like that, not anymore,” he sits beside her on the chaise and she grumbles as she moves over to make room for him.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Twenty years of proof.”

Yennefer scoffs, “He adores you.”

He sends her a disbelieving look, “Yeah, right.”

“He does,” she insists, “He always had. He’s just bad at showing it. Trust me I’ve seen into his mind plenty of times.”

Jaskier shakes his head, “Whatever you saw must have been for who I used to be. He’s made it clear he just wants to be friends. Can you do a magic thing to make me go back to just wanting to be friends?”

“No.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Yes.”

He groans, “You’re meant to help me.”

“I am helping. I’m giving you my time and advise, for free. Tell him.”

Jaskier can already imagine the shit storm that would come if he were to tell Geralt he’s getting feelings for him again. That being said, he now realises Geralt never knew he had loved him on their travels either; unless he figured it out. Even back then it had only been friendship he offered and it was too much. Friendship is what they had agreed on, what he had wanted, romance was asking for too much.

He was always too much. Always had been and everybody knew it. This time he wasn’t going to fool himself into believing he had a chance.

“Your thoughts are louder than you think.”

He frowns, “Stop reading my mind.”

“I don’t have to,” Yennefer smirks, “It’s all over your face. I know you’re not as dumb as you look so if you actually pay attention you’ll see that I’m right. As I always am.”

“You’re not always right,” he pouts.

“Pretty sure I am.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and then squeezes them shut. He can already feel his gut tightening at the mere thought of telling Geralt. It won’t end well. He knows it won’t; he’s been down this road before, albeit not offering love but friendship, and it ended in heartbreak. He’s only recently moved past it all he doesn’t want to be sent hurtling back.

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier admits. Whatever he feels for Geralt is much different than all the other times they had been in love and feels different from loving him a few years ago. All those times Geralt had been nice and curtesy from the begging. This time he’s starting in a completely different place. The butterflies, longing and shyness are all there but they’re overshadowed by the fear that he can’t trust Geralt with his heart. “It’s something.”

Yennefer nods slowly, “You don’t have to tell him right now, obviously. See if they go away, it might just be a fleeting thing. If they grow then you should talk to him.”

Jaskier isn’t sure if he wants them to go away or not. For the first time in a long time, Geralt is making him happy. Both options risk giving that up.

* * *

Geralt holds out a wishbone across the table, “Make a wish.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as he grips the other end of the bone and holds tightly. As long as he can remember he’s been asking Geralt to make wishes, hoping that he’d wish on them. Hoping that they make it.

All at once, he’s thrown back and he wants it harder than he’s wanted anything. His heart is still healing, almost stitched back together. He dares to risk it.

He wishes to trust Geralt again.

The bone snaps. The bigger piece pulls away in his hand.

“Did you make a good one?” Geralt asks quietly.

Jaskier twirls the bone around in his hand. It feels like hope. “I think so.”

* * *

Jaskier pauses when he walks out into the watchtower and finds Geralt already sat there and looking up at the sky, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise other people came here.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt gestures to the small space next to him and Jaskier gingerly sits.

It’s only a small space at the top of one of the old towers, there’s barely any space and their legs press against each other. Jaskier puts the blanket over himself, even summer nights were cold up here, and silently offers the other half to Geralt.

Geralt shifts so that his side is pressed against his own and pulls the blanket over him. Jaskier tucks it up to his chin and tries to pretend the warmth is from it and not the heat radiating off Geralt.

“So, what are you doing up here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Geralt shrugs, “You?”

“Same,” Jaskier whispers. In truth he had stayed up composing and hit a wall and was too stubborn to sleep so had decided stargazing would shake some inspiration into him. “Didn’t take you for the stargazing type.”

Geralt quirks a smile and his chest rumbles with a hum, “They’re useful for navigation. We had to learn them all as kids so we wouldn’t get lost on the Path. And they’re nice to look at,” he adds at the end sheepishly.

Jaskier grins widely, “Do I believe my ears? Geralt of Rivia saying that stars look nice? Surely this can’t be.”

“Shut up,” Geralt mumbles, glaring at the stars as if they’ve personally betrayed him by looking nice.

“I don’t think I will,” Jaskier continues, “My next song might even be how the White Wolf loves none other than the stars themselves, as the mere mortal beings that walk the Continent are an unworthy match for such a legendary hunter.”

Geralt frowns at him, “That’s not true.”

“It is if I say so,” Jaskier laughs, “All it takes is one song and people will believe it.”

“Like they’re meant to believe that you’re a ‘humble’ bard?” Geralt raises an eyebrow.

Jaskier nods seriously, “Precisely. It’s fact now.”

Geralt huffs but Jaskier sees the mirth dancing in his eyes. He wiggles to get comfier and leans his head back against the wall to look up at the sky. In all their years of travelling, he’d never spent much time watching them – nights spent in cities were spent inside the pub, nights outside were under the cover of trees or a tent.

“Tell me about the stars, then,” he nudges Geralt gently with his elbow, “So I don’t get lost.”

Geralt side-eyes him and then rolls his eyes. He reaches out a hand, “See those stars. Three across, for a belt, going down for legs and up for the torso,” he traces the patterns in the sky.

From this angle, Geralt’s hand doesn’t match up with what Jaskier sees, but he already knows which constellation he’s on about. He learnt astronomy as one of the seven liberal arts at Oxenfurt and can already list of the constellations and individual star names. Still, he wants to listen to Geralt tell it.

“Yeah, yeah I see it.”

Slowly, Geralt maps out the major constellations in the sky and tells him how to navigate using them. Jaskier listens to the soothing rumble of Geralt’s voice and when the hours pass by, he resists the urge to rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder.

* * *

Jaskier peels his eyes open to see Ciri treading quietly through the room with a jug of water. His mouth is disgustingly dry and he’d give anything to drink that water but his limbs are too heavy to move and his stomach spins to even think about it.

He breathes heavy and snuggles further into the bed. Except it’s not the bed, it’s the crook of Geralt’s neck. He’s too tired and too sick to do anything about it. Not that he wants to.

His eyes burn and pull down to shut and he doesn’t resist. He floats on the feeling of Geralt’s warmth pressed against him and lulls back to sleep.

It’s a while later when he is rudely awoken by Geralt shifting in his sleep and rolling over. Jaskier very narrowly avoids being injured as he is thrown from his place on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt takes the cover with him and Jaskier is exposed to the chill of the room. With no hesitation, he follows after Geralt and tucks himself against his back and wraps his arms around him in an attempt to reclaim some of the warmth and get what little of the cover remains back over him.

The only good thing about trying to sleep with hangovers is that when he does manage to it’s deep and dreamless. The bad part is that he more often than not wakes up every hour from feeling too sick.

He finally wakes up and his body won’t welcome him back into the dreamless sleep. It’s then that he realises how dry and sticky his mouth is. He swears he can still taste the liquor in the back of his throat and nose. His stomach feels like it’s in his throat.

Daring to move, he reaches over Geralt and grabs the jug of water, forgoing the glass. It’s sweet relief and no matter how much he drinks he still wants more. Geralt moves under him and Jaskier suddenly realises just how close they are, “You’re awake,” he notes, voice cracking.

He sets down the jug and slides back into the welcoming warmth of the covers. If he had any sense he’d be putting space between them, but he’s hungover and probably still a little drunk. And Geralt feels very cosy.

“So are you.”

Jaskier rolls onto his back and his head begins to pound. He’s never felt this sick in his life. He’s overheated and uncomfortable and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to an appropriate place if he needs to vomit. “I feel like death”

“You look like it, too.”

It’s enough to distract him from the ache of his body and he snaps his head to look at Geralt, “Rude! That’s downright indecorous of you, Geralt.”

Geralt shrugs, smiling easily, “You said it first.”

He glares but a fresh wave of sickness rolls over him and he takes a steadying breath. “I do suppose you’re right. Remind me to keep to regular alcohol instead of your Witcher’s brew,” he can taste it in the back of his mouth and just thinking about drinking it sends his stomach churning. “I don’t need the extra help getting drunk.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees.

“I’m holding you to that,” he whispers, closing his eyes and placing a hand over his stomach. He tries to focus on the heat of Geralt’s legs against his own instead of the heat of his own sweaty skin.

His forehead flares with pain and it feels like he’s being hit with a bat from the inside out. Jaskier lets out a pathetic sigh and tries to massage his temples to ease the pain but it doesn’t do anything to relieve it and he gives up. His head flops to the side and something brushes his nose. His eyes fly open and meet Geralt’s, mere inches away from his own. “Oh, hello,” he whispers

“Hi.”

Geralt makes no move and Jaskier feels like everything is slowing down and also going so fast. He doesn’t dare make a sound but he asks Geralt’s eyes what he wants and Geralt’s gaze darts down to his lips.

Carefully, he tips forwards and bumps his nose against Geralt’s questioningly. There are a million thoughts flying through his head but he can’t grasp onto any of them with Geralt this close. Geralt gasps softly, Jaskier watches his lips part ever so slightly and captures his gaze once again.

“Jask?” Geralt whispers reverently.

Jaskier decides he wants this. Geralt must want it too. He leans in and the door opens with a loud bang against the wall. Ciri walks merrily in and Jaskier’s heart is pounding. “Wake up, sleepyheads!”

“Melitele’s tits, Ciri, couldn’t you have knocked?” he grumbles, putting a hand on his chest to calm his racing heart. Not only from the sudden intrusion.

Geralt is handing him a jug of water and Jaskier quickly takes it and looks away. His mind is racing with thoughts and questions about the almost kiss. Was it an almost kiss or was he just deluding himself? Did Geralt want him like that?

He doesn’t listen to what Geralt and Ciri say, as his heart calms down the sickness comes back and he can’t find the energy to rise from the bed. He snuggles down into the sheets as they leave and he breathes in deeply. They smell of Geralt, of course, he realises, because this is his bed.

Regret joins the nausea in his stomach. What had he let happen? Geralt had made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want Jaskier as anything more than a friend. Whatever Jaskier had thought he wanted mustn’t have been what Geralt did.

He loves Ciri but he wishes she hadn’t interrupted so he’d know for sure.

He groans his frustrations into a pillow. He really should go back to his own room, it’s only two doors down and laughable that he didn’t make it there last night. But even thinking about walking anywhere makes him feel worse.

Jaskier isn’t sure how long it’s been when the door creaks open. He keeps his head buried in the pillows, too tired to lift his head.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says quietly, placing a hand on his back and Jaskier is forced to lift his head. “I got you food.”

On the bedside table is a plate with two thick slices of buttered toast, a fresh glass of water and a steaming mug of tea. Jaskier shuffles upright and takes small bites of the toast, unsure if it’s making him feel better or worse.

“Sorry for stealing your bed,” he says around a bite of toast, covering his mouth with his hand.

Geralt cocks his head sideways with a smile, “No worries. Need anything else?”

Jaskier thinks that Geralt looks too healthy for a night that has caused the worst hangover of his life. “No,” he mumbles pathetically, reaching for the tea.

It’s extra sweet and made just right. He relaxes as he sips at it and feels it replace the liquor in his stomach. At least for now; he knows full well that breakfast won’t be some miracle cure.

“You should get some sleep,” Geralt says and puts the back of his hand to Jaskier’s sweaty forehead, “You really don’t look good.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier huffs and tries to push himself up but Geralt stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Where are you going?”

“My room?”

“Oh,” Geralt removes his hand and lets it drop to his lap, “You can stay here. If you like. Up to you,” he says, collecting the empty plate and mug. “I don’t mind,” he says as he disappears from the room once more.

Jaskier blinks at his sudden departure. Really, he should head back to his own room and bed, at least then if he does throw up it’ll be his own room that he ruins. Except, he’s feeling selfish and he’s already comfortable here. So he sinks back down, pulls the covers high over him and breathes in the smell of Geralt until he falls asleep.

* * *

It’s the beginning of summer which brings around Ciri’s birthday. Training is cancelled for the day. Vesemir has been baking for days. Lambert and Eskel made a trip down the mountain two weeks ago to get supplies and Jaskier assumes some presents.

There had been a bit of a debate on whether they should make a deal out of it or pretend it’s just an ordinary day. Ciri’s never spent a birthday without her family and Jaskier had been worried it might be upsetting. He still misses them all he can only imagine how hard it must be for her to not have them around for this.

But somewhere they decided that they all deserve the break and some nice things. Jaskier doesn’t know what to get her. He could write a song, of course, but he wants to give her something to hold onto. He spends a month before the day searching the keep for anything worthwhile but mostly finds a lot of dust and some horrifying blood splattered rooms in the basement.

It’s two days before her birthday when Jaskier decides to enlist Yennefer’s help. The gift is relatively small but he hopes that she will like it.

Her birthday arrives and starts with a large breakfast of fresh eggs, bacon and just about everything they could throw together. Ciri is the last to arrive for breakfast, they’d all let her sleep in for a change. She arrives looking frantic, “Sorry I’m late,” her face melts into confusion, “What’s going on?”

“Happy birthday!” they all yell in unison.

Shock crosses her face followed by a deep blush as she steps closer to the breakfast spread. “You didn’t have to do anything,” she looks around at them all, trying to guess which of them was responsible.

“But we wanted to,” Jaskier puts his hands on her shoulders and wheedles her into a chair besides Yennefer and they all pile their plates high.

“Thank you,” Ciri smiles as she digs into her breakfast.

After they eat the Witchers take her out of the keep and further up the mountain to show her the views. So much for getting out of training, Jaskier thinks to himself as the hike up the steep tracks make his legs burn.

When they reach the top it truly is magnificent. From here all the valleys and mountains for miles are in view. It truly puts into perspective how small they actually are in comparison to the rest of the universe. While the snow has melted around the keep, it remains at the top of the peak.

Jaskier wishes he had brought his journal so he could document all the beauty. Instead, Ciri hits him in the face with a snowball.

Geralt joins in her attack and Jaskier scrabbles to scoop up snow to defend himself. Lambert joins his side and Eskel joins Vesemir.

A well-aimed snowball hits the back of his neck and begins to melt down his shirt, “Who threw that?” Jaskier yells, scooping up snow and barely waiting to form a ball before he sends it flying at the rest.

His fingers are freezing cold and going numb, he hadn’t worn the best clothes for the cold up here and he didn’t bring any gloves. It’s worth it to hear Ciri’s shrieks of laughter and see Geralt get tackled by Eskel when he isn’t looking.

When they make it back to the keep his fingers have nearly regained feeling but are still bright red. Vesemir heads to the kitchen to make them all some hot drinks and Yennefer whisks Ciri away to give her a present.

Jaskier already knows what the mage’s gift is – a glamour, a small one so as not to attract too much attention from other mages, but enough that Ciri should be able to slip through small towns without being noticed.

He stands in front of the roaring fireplace trying to warm up when Geralt comes to stand next to him.

“Cold?”

“Clearly,” he shudders, rubbing his hands together faster willing warmth into them.

Geralt hums, “Here,” he says and takes Jaskier’s hands in his own and begins to rub them between his own. His hands are warm and rough and gentle as he gently warms them.

Jaskier holds his breath at the contact. His cheeks heat up and he wishes he could blame it on the fire. “Thank you,” he rasps out.

Geralt just gives him a small smile and keeps trying to warm his hands. Jaskier can’t tell if his hands are still cold or not because all he can feel is the warmth of Geralt, moving softly over his own. Jaskier can feel the callouses on his palm, his thumb stroking over the back of his hands.

Vesemir comes back with a tray of drinks and Geralt steps back. Jaskier mourns the loss of his touch but gladly takes a mug. The warmth radiating through the mug pales in comparison to Geralt’s hands.

Yennefer and Ciri come back soon and they spend the afternoon lounging around the fire. Ciri gets the Witchers to regale her with some old tales of hunts. Jaskier can tell how much she wants to be like them, to go on the Path when she’s older and the prospect fills him with dread at her being in that kind of danger, but it’s not his place to decide for her.

Dinner is just as filling as breakfast and Yennefer takes out her enchanted music box to play for them afterwards. The wine flows freely, Jaskier refuses to touch the Witchers liquor again.

Ciri tugs on his shirt sleeve after it goes dark, “Did you get me anything?”

“Presumptuous,” he gasps. “Of course I did. It’s upstairs, c’mon,” he leads her out of the room, just in time to escape the gwent being cracked out.

They reach his room and he opens fetches her present off his desk. “Close your eyes,” he says and she does so and holds out her hands.

Jaskier places the gift in her hands and she opens them. In her hands sits a metal folding picture frame about the size of her palm, she folds it out to reveal two portraits. One of Calanthe and Eist, the other of Pavetta and Duny.

Her eyes fill with tears, “How did you get this?” she whispers.

“I had Yennefer make it,” he explains, “Got her to look at my memories of them.”

Ciri wipes at her eyes, “Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he kneels in front of her and dries her face.

She shakes her head, “You didn’t. Well, I am sad, but I’m also happy. Now I won’t forget what they look like.” She reaches forward and hugs him tightly and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

Ciri stops to put the paintings in her room and then they head back down to join the others.

Geralt catches his eyes when he re-enters the room and gives him a soft smile. Jaskier returns it, holding his gaze as he sits on the opposite side of the room and commentates on the gwent game that Geralt is winning.

* * *

Maybe it’s not the best idea to seek Geralt out when he’s trying to deal with his feelings that only seem to be growing. Unfortunately, he can’t stop himself. He wrestles with the idea of seeking Geralt out for half an hour before he finally makes the decision to walk down the hall to Geralt’s room.

He lets himself in and Geralt whips his head up at his entry, “What are you doing here?”

“Blessing you with my presence,” he grins, hopping onto the bed and kicking up his feet.

Geralt rolls his eyes and Jaskier grins wider, beginning to pluck a tune on his lute. “Want to hear my latest song about your exploits?”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“My audience doesn’t need to know that.”

Geralt makes an accepting face and Jaskier launches into his latest made-up song about an epic battle against a family of werewolves. Not entirely untrue, he had pestered Vesemir for a few days for facts which he had embellished into the song.

He plays the handful of songs he’s made in the past few months. Geralt grumbling his praises or insults after each one.

Despite being mid-summer, Geralt still has a fire burning in the fireplace, though he supposes it’s in preparation for the chilly nights. Jaskier unbuttons his shirt to stave off the heat and idly strums his lute. The room has changed a lot since he used to share it with Geralt, the furniture and placement is all the same but now all that remains is Geralt’s belongings.

“You can’t do this in your own room?”

“Nope, not when you’ve admitted you like it,” Jaskier grins, still riding the high of finally having approval for his songs and voice. “What do you even do in here anyway?”

“Read, meditate, whittle.”

“Oh, I forgot you did that,” Jaskier puts his lute away. On the road, Geralt always carried a small knife to work on little wooden figurines. Jaskier never saw them after they were finished but they were fine work and would fetch some coin if Geralt ever sold them. “Done any whittling recently?”

“There’s a box of them under the bed.”

Jaskier hops off the bed and crouches down to find the box. There’s plenty of opportunity to tease him about the amount of horses there probably are. Instead, what he sees shoved down there is a bag. A very familiar bag.

He pulls it out and is almost certain that it’s his. It even has an old ink stain on the bottom from where his pot spilt inside. “What’s this?

“Um.”

“Is this mine?” he asks even though he knows the answer. He undoes the buckles, already knowing what he’ll find.

“Wait,” Geralt comes over and tries to pull his hands away.

“Why? What’s in here?” he challenges. He left the bag on the mountain. It’s entirely possible Geralt used it and repurposed it for his own uses, but the panic in Geralt’s voice only spurs him on.

“Nothing-”

Jaskier opens the flap and sees his old journal. He pulls it out and then the matching blue doublet and trousers underneath them. His heart nearly breaks at the sight of his old clothes; all winter he’s had to wear borrowed clothes in dull colours when his own had been right here. But that’s not what bothers him, what bothers him is that Geralt has this and has had it since the mountain.

“Why do you have this?”

“You left it on the mountain that day. I took it. Thought you might still be waiting at the bottom, you weren’t, I didn’t throw it away.”

Jaskier picks up the journal with shaking hands. The first pages are music compositions but the back pages are filled with his half-formed memories, questions and worries about the nightmares that plagued him. Everything he was is written down. “Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier clenches his teeth. Geralt had read it all and never said anything when they reunited. It was painfully obvious looking back what the sketches were. “So you knew I was remembering and you still never told me.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and sits down. There’s no use getting angry about it when they’ve worked so hard to move past it, but he can’t help but feel a stab of betrayal. Geralt couldn’t even pretend he didn’t know what Jaskier had been going through – he should have been told about the curse the second Geralt knew he remembered the past. Except he really doesn’t want to feel that way again; knowing this doesn’t change what happened.

“It’s in the past, so I won’t hold it against you,” he says carefully. The truth is he doesn’t understand why Geralt kept it in the first place. “But why did you keep all this?”

“I told you I didn’t want to lose you.”

“It’s just an outfit.”

“Yours.”

Jaskier swallows. He doesn’t understand where this is coming from and yet he does. “But you hated me then,” he tests, setting aside the journal.

“I didn’t hate you. I was scared of you and what you meant to me.”

His chest feels tight with hope and defence. He so desperately wants Geralt to mean what he thinks he might but he’s never got what he wanted before. “And what did I mean to you?” he pushes, standing up and holding Geralt’s gaze.

“Everything,” Geralt breathes.

It’s everything he wants to hear and yet he feels like so vulnerable. He’s out in the middle of the ocean with nothing to keep him afloat. “Don’t lie to me,” he looks away. It’s one thing to live with feelings being unreciprocated, it’s another to have them returned out of pity.

Geralt reaches for his hand and tugs lightly to make him look back, “I’m not lying. You did. You do.”

Jaskier can’t quite believe it. It’s too good to be true. His insecurities raise their ugly head and he’s reminded that he has always been liked best, wanted more, when he was someone else. His eyes well up with tears. Who he is now is nothing in comparison to who he used to be. Any affection Geralt might have must be misguided remembrance for what they used to share. "Only because of who I used to be."

Geralt shakes his head, “Every time I’ve loved you it hasn’t been because I already did. In fact, it’s the opposite, I try and avoid it so I don’t have to lose you again. And every time I fail. Except it’s not a failure to love you.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he can breathe properly. “Geralt, I-”

“Let me finish, please, you deserve to know. I love you, Jaskier and I have for a long time. Not because of who you were but because of who you are. You deserve so much better than I can give you, but I need you to know because I can’t keep it from you any longer.”

He looks for any sign that this is a lie, some cruel joke but finds none. He wants to run away and hide from the onslaught of questions in his mind. He wants to fall into Geralt’s arms and finally be home. He wants to believe that Geralt is telling him the truth. “What do you want from me, Geralt?”

“You. If you’ll have me.”

Jaskier would have him in a heartbeat. It’s all he wanted for almost twenty years. It’s what he’s wanted for the past few weeks. But he’s scared of getting hurt again. It could so easily go wrong. And yet, they managed to find each other again and again and they always ended up here. That has to mean something. He knows that Geralt has the power to lift him higher than he’s ever been or sending him sinking.

Geralt is looking at him with his love laid bare and Jaskier decides to risk it. What is love if not a risk? Everything good is worth taking a chance. He decides to trust Geralt with his heart once more.

Softly, barely above a whisper, he says, “I’ll have you.”

Relief crosses Geralt’s face followed quickly by what Jaskier thinks is hope. He can barely hear anything above the blood rushing in his ears. Geralt’s hand is still holding his and he gives it a gentle squeeze and Geralt steps forward slowly.

Jaskier’s hand comes to settle on his waist and Geralt’s other hand comes up to cup his face and stroke his thumb over his cheek. “Is this okay?” Geralt asks lowly, bumping their foreheads together and sharing the same space.

“Yes,” he breathes, voice cracking.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Geralt ducks forward, his lips hover above Jaskier’s letting him move away if he wants. They lock eyes, one final question silently shared between them. Jaskier lets his eyes flutter shut and closes the distance, sealing their lips together with a kiss. The tension seeps out of his shoulders and Geralt makes a pleased noise and pulls him closer. 

All of Jaskier’s apprehension melts away. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about where they will go, but he knows where they’ve been, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man we finally made it here! i didn't think we ever would! hopefully it was all worth it? let me know what you thought <33


	27. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit its the last chapter :'(( 
> 
> i made a playlist of all the songs I used in this fic (plus one that I didn't use at the end but is the Vibe) which you can find at this link https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5XAx40Wc0USdZcP5tPteX6 (sorry i cant figure out how to embed links, but if you search the title of this fic in spotify it should come up!)
> 
> sappy authors note at the end

Even after nearly two months, there’s still a tentativeness to their relationship. Gentle touches and stolen moments. Nothing too fast or too full. They need to find their footing first and there’s no hurry to do so.

Jaskier feels like a boy again. Dancing around social boundaries and flirting and fighting the butterflies in his stomach. Each brush of fingers or kiss sending his heart racing. He’s addicted to Geralt’s attention and at the same time overwhelmed by it all. Whenever they catch eyes it feels like the first time, flushed cheeks and dry throat. When they kiss it feels like they’ve always done this, the near seventy years without such intimacy unnoticeable, they always have been and always will be.

Geralt is thankful that he has been blessed with Jaskier’s affections again. When he wakes alone in his bed each morning, he’s convinced it was all some dream. Then he’ll join the others for breakfast, Jaskier will kiss his cheek as he takes a seat beside him and he’ll realise it’s real. It feels like a drink of water when he’s been dying of thirst. He doesn’t deserve him but he will try his best to. He was a fool for pushing him away for so long and is lucky there’s any room left in Jaskier’s heart for him, let alone how much there is.

It’s nearly autumn again and the weather is slowly getting cooler. They’ve been making trips down the mountain all summer to stock up for the winter months – it’s more than they’ve ever been able to store up before. The pantry is full of bags of flour and grains, dried meats and pickled fruits and vegetables. Eskel somehow managed to bring a small herd of goats up the mountain to add to their livestock.

Jaskier is back to wearing finer clothes. On one trip to collect supplies, Geralt went to the tailor and used the last of his personal coin to buy a few outfits in bright silks. They were ready-made so not tailored to fit exactly but good enough to wear.

He sits on the ground in the courtyard with his doublet tossed aside, leaning back on his arms, face up towards the sun taking in the last of the summer warmth. Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye as he trains Ciri. The light blue of his outfit shimmers in the light and Geralt would be lying if he said it was the fabric and not Jaskier himself that is distracting.

“Gross,” Ciri rolls her eyes when she sees what’s distracting Geralt. He knows that she isn’t really disgusted; both he and Jaskier had spoken to her separately about how she felt about them being together and she had been nothing but supportive. He refocuses and pays attention to her until they’re done for the day and she runs off to find Yennefer.

Geralt walks up to Jaskier who squints open an eye and looks up at him. “You’re blocking my sun,” he pouts.

He steps aside letting the sun flash into his eyes and Jaskier puts up a hand to block out the light. Geralt flops down on the ground beside him, “Enjoy your sun tanning?”

Jaskier smirks at him, “Better now that you’re here.”

Geralt leans forward to kiss Jaskier’s forehead, his skin is warm beneath his lips from the sun. Jaskier’s cheeks heat and he tilts his head up so that Geralt kisses him properly, too.

They stay in the courtyard for a while taking in the sun before heading inside. Together they walk to Geralt’s room and he uses ignii to heat the tub of cold water in the corner. He undresses and slips into the bath, a small screen dividing him from the view of the room. He hears Jaskier moving about, no doubt idly going through his things.

It’s good to have him back around, it’s like they’re in some tavern on the road again when their only problems had been finding the next contract. Jaskier has only recently started joining him in the room whilst he bathes, he doesn’t always but Geralt finds he misses the company when he’s not around.

Jaskier pulls out his bag from under Geralt’s bed, he had taken his old clothes to wear something of his own but had left the rest. At the bottom he finds a small half bar of chamomile soap, the smell is a bit faded and the bar dry and cracked but still useable. He hesitantly walks over to the screen, through the cutout patterns he can make out the image of Geralt in the bath. “Knock knock,” he says quietly.

Geralt smirks, seeing the shadow of Jaskier on the other side of the screen, “Come in.”

Jaskier steps round the side of the screen and hovers and waves the bar of soap awkwardly, “I thought I might help.”

Geralt nods and Jaskier settles behind him as he has done so many times before. He hears the splash of water and feels the barest brush against his back when Jaskier dips the bar into the bath. A hand settles on his shoulder and guides him to lean back and then there are fingers in his hair lathering up the soap and working out knots. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch. He doesn’t remember the last time Jaskier did this for him, it must have been well before the mountain, and he is once again reminded of how lucky he is to get this again.

Jaskier hums as he cleans Geralt’s hair. A rewrite of a song he already wrote but in a major key, he hasn’t found which words he wants to keep or change yet but it’s been working in the back of his mind for a few weeks. He’s been keeping it to himself, not wanting to share until it’s perfect. It’s about Geralt, as all his songs seem to be; even the ones he wrote before they even met he can trace back to his past lives with the Witcher.

“New song?” Geralt rumbles, looking behind him slightly to catch Jaskier’s eyes.

“Sort of,” Jaskier nods.

“Sing it?”

Jaskier’s chest clenches at the request. Even now the easy acceptance of his songwriting and singing abilities comes as a bit of a shock. An ingrained nervousness that a handful of months of praise can’t yet undo. He knows Geralt means it, though, has always enjoyed it. “When it’s finished.”

Geralt hums a little in disappointment but doesn’t push. Jaskier keeps humming to himself and guides him to lay back in the water to rinse out his hair. The faint scent of chamomile fills his nose as the soap runs off his hair and fizzes in the water beside his head.

Soapy hands then run over his back, followed by a wet cloth. “You don’t have to,” he says, he’s perfectly capable of washing himself, but he doesn’t protest too strongly for he has missed this sort of intimacy.

“I want to,” Jaskier assures, swiping the cloth down his back and over his shoulder. He takes his time, admiring the slope of muscles and the thick scars that are scattered. He can recount the tale of each of them, whether he was there or not. He knows which ones he bandaged, which ones he stitched, which ones required a healer.

There’s one very faint scar near Geralt’s lower back towards his right hip. The skin is ever so slightly puckered but has nearly faded. Jaskier knows this scar, it’s one he stitched himself as Dandelion; he did a piss poor job, not used to handling needles on skin and probably left the wound looking worse than if Geralt had blindly done it himself. He scans upwards and finds another next to his spine, a round bite mark that he had stitched as Buttercup. By the back of his neck, something he had fixed up as Julian. And in the centre of his shoulder muscles sits one of the most recent, one he had stitched after a fight with a griffin a few years ago.

He is written across Geralt’s skin just as surely as Geralt is written across his songs.

Jaskier leans forward and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades. He passes the cloth and soap to Geralt so that he can wash his front down and stands up. “I’ll let you finish,” he says and disappears into the other part of the room.

Geralt watches him go and tries not to be disappointed that he didn’t stay. He quickly finishes up, dries off and puts on some trousers. Jaskier is sitting on the bed when he walks out from behind the screen. His box of whittled sculptures sits on the bed beside him as the bard pulls them out one by one to appraise them.

“Like what you see?”

Jaskier looks up, his eyes grazing up and down his bare chest before he meets his eyes, “Yes,” he grins.

Geralt flushes and rolls his eyes, “I mean the woodwork,” he says with a smile as he sits on the bed next to him.

Jaskier hums, “I know,” he smirks. He picks up two small sculptures, one of a horse and one of a flower. “Tell me, do you make me or Roach more often?”

“Roach.”

Jaskier sticks out his tongue and puts down the horse and spins the small dandelion sculpture between his finger. “You can’t even wish on this one,” he pouts.

“I don’t need any more wishes,” Geralt plucks the wooden flower from his finger, “I already have you.”

Jaskier blushes and ducks his head, “Sap.”

“It’s true,” Geralt insists.

Jaskier meets his eyes and fights a grin, “I thought I was meant to be the sappy one, I’m the poet after all.”

He snorts, “As if I could forget.” Geralt drops the dandelion back into the box and secures the lid. He stands up and walks around the bed to put it back in its usual spot, feeling Jaskier’s eyes follow him around the room. When he crouches down to put it under the bed he hears the creak of the mattress as Jaskier shuffles up the bed to lay against the pillows.

Geralt joins him and lounges next to him, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, “Comfy?”

Jaskier nods as he nestles against the pillows, several of which had been added at his behest since he started spending more time here. “Yeah,” he smiles softly, angling his face up in an invite for a kiss.

Geralt wastes no time in sweeping down to capture his lips. He pulls away much too quickly for Jaskier’s liking and he makes a disappointed noise. He doesn’t move away too far or for too long.

Jaskier feels the brush of Geralt’s fingers on his lower back, still hesitant and unsure. He’s letting him move away if he wishes, he doesn’t, and Geralt’s palm settles against him. He moves, tucking himself against Geralt’s side, curling an arm around his waist. Geralt hums contentedly. Jaskier tilts his head up and kisses him deeply, slow and gentle – a moment shared between only them – and the rest of the world melts away.

* * *

Jaskier looks over Geralt’s face as he dozes. The beginning of wrinkles just appearing along his forehead, a small half crease beside his eyes. There are a few shadows beneath his eyes that have been clearing up the past few weeks but remain present. Faint scars here and there. He doesn’t look aged but he looks worn.

He can so clearly remember what Geralt looked like when he was barely twenty, fresh-faced and freezing to death in the snow. He looks so different now. If the centuries did not age him physically they certainly did in the way he holds himself, the way he views the world and holds onto those closest to him.

Geralt has always looked like Geralt, Jaskier had never had any notion to believe he could have looked different or younger in any of his lives. But now he sees it. The way each loss, heartbreak, and decade on the Path has weathered at him.

“I can feel you staring,” Geralt whispers, blinking open his eyes, “What are you thinking?”

“You got old,” Jaskier says quietly, his fingers reaching out and tracing over the slopes of Geralt’s face.

“I still look forty,” Geralt denies.

Jaskier shakes his head slightly, “Nuh-uh, sure you’ve not really aged or got many more wrinkles. I’m not talking about the scars. But you got old. Worn. I wish I hadn’t been the cause of it.”

“You weren’t,” Geralt reaches up to grasps Jaskier’s hand and bring it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “It did it to myself. Lambert said I’m my own worst enemy. If not for you, I’d look twice as old.”

Jaskier doubts the truth in that – if not for him the only complication Geralt would have faced in his life would have been the Path. He wouldn’t have had the strength to lose Geralt so many times, to open his heart to pain again and again. Almost every hardship Geralt has faced he has had some hand in. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Geralt says with certainty. “You make life worth it. Without you, I’d be a miserable old man. Still am. But you make me better, want to do better. Life’s just monsters and money without you, that’s no life.”

Jaskier tucks his nose into the crook of Geralt’s neck, breathing him in, and feels his arms wrap around him. “Do you regret it? You could’ve found someone immortal back at the start and avoided all the hurt.”

Geralt’s arms tighten around him, it’s unthinkable to him to regret anything they shared. “Never. If I had to do it all again I would. And you are immortal now, so it was all worth it,” he presses a kiss to Jaskier’s head. “It’d still be worth it if you weren’t, by the way.”

Jaskier relaxes and kisses the soft skin at the bottom of Geralt’s neck. He hums happily, “You were worth it, too,” he nuzzles in closer.

Geralt smiles and he buries his face in Jaskier’s hair, “I love you.” Jaskier doesn’t say it back, hasn’t said it yet, but Geralt doesn’t care – he’s happy to wait until Jaskier is ready to say it and he won’t hold back from making his feelings clear in the meantime.

Jaskier feels warm spread through him at the words. His walls are still there, lowered though they may be, he still wants to protect himself, he still wonders. “Would you have loved me in my next life, if I’d had one?” he asks, untucking himself from Geralt’s side and rolling onto his stomach, tucking his arms under his pillow.

Geralt smiles fondly, “I’d love you in every life.”

Jaskier hums happily, “What do you think I would have been called next?”

“Something flower related.”

“What about Peony, or Blossom, or Bluebell?”

“None of those are yellow flowers,” Geralt points out.

Jaskier sticks out his tongue in thought, “Sunflower?”

Geralt nods, “Probably.”

Jaskier grins, “Excellent. Now, where do you think we would meet?”

Geralt feels a pit in his stomach at the thought of Jaskier being reborn. Whatever forces of destiny that had let them meet time and time again were no longer in force. Had he been reborn they may never have met. “Nowhere,” he grumbles, “I wouldn’t have found you.”

Jaskier frowns, “What do you mean?”

“The djinn wish,” Geralt exhales deeply, “If you died it would be the last I saw of you.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Geralt hums his disagreement.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Well, I would have found you.”

Geralt shoots him an exasperated look, “But the wish I made, to bind my destiny to Yennefer instead of you, nothing is keeping us together.”

Jaskier shrugs, “You made that wish nearly seven years ago. I’ve found you plenty of times since then.”

Geralt doesn’t feel comforted by this notion. If anything, it reminds him that there’s no safety net keeping Jaskier around. Even in this life, with all of eternity stretched before them, Jaskier could leave and Geralt might never see him again.

Jaskier can see the doubt and insecurity creeping across Geralt’s face and shuffles onto his side, reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek. “Hey,” he says softly, “We don’t have to be bound for me to be here. I’m not here because of fate or larger forces, Geralt, I’m here because I’m choosing to be. And will keep choosing to be, for as long as you keep choosing me, too.”

Geralt turns his face and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s palm, “I’ll always choose you.”

Jaskier smiles softly and leans forward to kiss him slowly. Geralt relaxes into the kiss, chasing after his lips when he pulls away.

“Maybe it was your destiny to change your destiny,” Jaskier posits. “Ciri and Yennefer need each other and wouldn’t have that if you never made the wish.”

There had been a time where Jaskier would have resented any suggestion that Yennefer would be a necessary part of Ciri’s life, but now he’s thankful they have each other. Ciri needs Yennefer and much as Yennefer needs Ciri. He’s just glad he gets to be a part of their family.

Geralt sighs, less than pleased at more speculation on destiny. Everything always came back to it in one way or another. “You know, I managed to avoid having to deal with destiny until Renfri,” he mutters.

Jaskier snorts, “Eh, she more spoke random utterances of prophecy. Seeing the future, that sort of thing,” he muses. “She knew Ciri was your destiny before you ever invoked Law of Surprise and made her your destiny. She knew we’d always find each other.”

Geralt hums and quirks a smile, “Couldn’t get rid of you if I tried.”

Jaskier gasps in mock offence and sticks out his tongue. “Plus,” he emphasises, “We’ll never find out what untying our destinies meant for the curse was, because as it stands Renfri’s prophecy is still true.”

“How? You’re not my destiny anymore.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I? I don’t plan on going anywhere,” Jaskier grins toothily, “Or maybe it’s just dumb luck. What matters is we’re here.”

* * *

Jaskier clears his throat loudly, “Distinguished ladies and Witchers, prepare yourselves to witness the long-awaited return of the master bard, Jaskier!”

Ciri is the first to cheer and lead the others into clapping. Lambert wolf whistles as they all applaud and Jaskier bows with a grin. He puts a hand up to silence them and catches Geralt’s amused look from the end of the sofa he is crammed onto as they all sit in front of him.

“Without much further ado,” he pulls his lute around from his back, plucking a few strings to test the sound. He winks at Geralt and launches into the song he’s spent weeks rewriting.

_You. You told me I was younger_

_That I was filled with wonder_

_How wrong you were_

_For you. I would have gone so much blonder._

_Seen that wild blue yonder and said_

_Let’s end this too_

_So one last time, love, come and rip my clothes off_

_Grip the bathroom rug my skin’s grown so soft_

_Let’s wander, till the fuckers demand an encore_

_Flirting. Wasn’t flirting. In the back of a bookshop_

_Come and rip off my socks like you’re blasting the locks off of a bank vault Halt!_

_This time we’re done for_

_Let’s hide under the covers_

_We don’t know what’s out there_

_Could be wolves_

He smiles wider and winks at that line and gets a round of rowdy cheers from the Witchers. He catches Geralt’s eyes right as he moves onto the next line.

_So hold me, lover, like you used to_

_So tight I’d bruise you_

_I’d bruise you, I’d bruise you too_

As he plays the rest of the song his confidence builds. He hasn’t had an audience in so long he forgot the rush it gave him to perform. Sure, he had sung all year, but that was only for one person at a time and usually just Geralt or Ciri. Even though it’s only six people, his family no less, the anxiety and adrenaline rushes through his body. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and he remembers why he loves it. He lets the last note ring out and bows to their applause.

A bard never plays just one song, so he cracks out the other songs he’s written this year about Geralt’s made up adventures and a few of his classics. He ends his repertoire with Toss A Coin, something the other Witchers have never heard from its creator before.

Geralt watches proudly as Jaskier cycles through his songs, barely even grumbling at the blatant lies in some of them. He sees the way he grows more confident with each song and encouragement. He wishes he had never had a part in breaking down that confidence but he’ll make up for it as much as he can, cheering him on the loudest. Alongside Ciri, who is also very loud with her praises.

* * *

The candles are burning low, the last feeble flickering of light against the wall. Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s chest, tucked against his side under the covers and stealing as much warmth as he can. Geralt’s arms wrap securely around him and he brushes his fingers up and down the length of his spine.

Jaskier wants nothing else other than this. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way before. His whole life he's itched for more, longed to be wanted and to love someone who loves him back. He doesn’t need to hope anymore.

“Are you staying here tonight?” Geralt breaks the silence. There’s only been a small number of times where Jaskier had shared his bed instead of going to sleep in his own room, and Geralt cherishes each one. He sleeps better when Jaskier is close by, when he can hold him close and assure himself that he really is here.

Jaskier gives the barest of nods, not opening his eyes. Too cosy to consider moving. “If that’s okay,” he mumbles, his voice thick with near sleep.

“Always.”

Jaskier hums happily, pressing a small kiss to Geralt’s chest near where his head rests. “G’night.”

“Goodnight,” Geralt replies with a yawn, “I love you.”

Jaskier wakes a little. He finds that he’s not afraid anymore. A small part of him still worries about the future, there are many paths they can take and not all of them together, and the future is never guaranteed. But he knows he would regret not holding onto this with everything he can. The world may try, has tried, to take them apart; but he will always come back, always find his way to Geralt. “I love you, too,” he replies, and happily seals his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand the end!!
> 
> it feels so weird to be saying that. when I was writing the ending seemed so far away I never thought Id actually get here. I've never written anything longer than 40k, yet alone finished anything longer than about 10k - which was how long this was supposed to be. somehow i got to nearly 240k and actually finished it and i wouldn't have been able to do it without all the support from everyone who reviewed, bookmarked and kudos'd. i started writing this in march and it really got me through this whole year, whether you found this fic when i started posting or more recently i hope it brought you even a fraction of the happiness it gave me to write it. it was a long ass road, thank you so much to everyone who read through it all!! i love you all and thank you for reading <333


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